To Ring the Bell Backward
by Yesac
Summary: When he tied his life to Arthur's at Camlann in a desperate attempt to ensure that Arthur would rise again, Merlin never considered that he was making a mistake. And, as misguided as Arthur has become, fighting him was never something Merlin wanted-and it may not be something destiny even allows.
1. Chapter 1

Just to be safe, I'll warn for spoilers for Series Five. It's a bit hard to tell-if you haven't seen Series Five, any references to it that are found in this story are small enough that you probably won't recognize them as actually coming from the show itself. Nevertheless, this was written while S5 was airing, so there likely are some tiny details that oozed out of my brain and into the plot. I can guarantee some explicit spoilers for S4, though, so if you haven't seen that, read at your own peril.

* * *

[December 12th, 2013]

"Merlin. I think you've run long enough, don't you?"

The gun in Merlin's hand feels cold, ice cold, so cold that he can't register the trigger under his finger. Is his finger even _on _the trigger? Would it matter? His hand is so unnaturally still. It should be shaking, but there's no waver, and the barrel remains trained on the man across from him.

"No," he murmurs, hardly able to get the words out.

Arthur just smiles.

"You won't shoot me. Now put it down."

* * *

[November 7th, 2013]

It's been raining for a week straight. But, then, this is Britain.

These days, Merlin prefers to try to ignore the weather.

Of course, it'd be easier to feel good about anything if there weren't a constant low rap beating against the inside of his skull as he slips out the side door of the building and into the street. Ducking his head low against the driving rain, he pulls his hood up and jogs across the pavement to the opposide sidewalk; he hardly even notices when a car rushes by, catching water and mud and who knows what else in its tires and spraying him with an icy-cold film. Damn jacket: he'd bought it because it was, most importantly, cheap, and, probably every bit as necessarily, inconspicuous—a dark navy—but would it really be too much to ask that maybe it could be a bit warm too?

Apparently so.

One quick glance behind him offers reassurance that nobody has followed him: wet coats aside, it's a good night. He probably won't have many more of them if things keep up the way they're going.

But that's why he's here, isn't it? Here, slipping past a barely lit and obviously closed-for-the-night (maybe forever) Sainsbury's, sliding down another dimly lit street. He's been this way before: getting lost was never the worry, but that's not entirely a comfort when so many other things _are_.

"Well, you certainly look terrible."

Oh, no doubt. Nice of her to point it out, though. "Not all of us were born into the lap of luxury, Morgana."

_Again_. Not that she knows this isn't the first time.

She just flashes him a sharp grin, showing that perfect smile that Merlin would swear came from braces if she hadn't had it to begin with in Camelot. People shouldn't get to be as gorgeous as Morgana naturally is, but a second rebirth makes it pretty clear that, for whatever reason, fate is just that kind to her. He can still remember the first time he saw her on the telly, standing there on stage next to Arthur, wearing some dress that probably cost more than Merlin's family made in a year.

Tonight, though, she's not looking her best: cutting grin aside, there are dark smudges under her eyes, and her hair seems a bit lifeless, like she hasn't been able to wash it in a few days. The more he looks, the more he's reminded of the Morgana he remembers in the years after she was driven out of Camelot. At the very least, she still appears more than a little mad. That's the thing with Morgana, though: even a bit crazy, she's still calm and collected, always calculating, and so insanely competent that only a fool would see her as anything less than a threat.

A threat to whom, though?

"Well," she says, arching an eyebrow and leaning back against the brick wall behind her, "at least you haven't lost _everything _yet."

"Is that a not-so-subtle way of reminding me why I'm here?"

Another grin, and this time she tosses her hair back over her shoulder, tipping her face up to the rain and laughing a little. "Only you have any idea why you're here, Merlin."

Why in the world didn't they have this meeting in the daytime? Or maybe when it wasn't raining? There are puddles dotting the alleyway, and it's _cold_—his fingers are starting to numb—but somehow they're still here, peering through the dark at each other's faces, like there's something to be learned in these few mintues. "I don't have any reason to trust you."

"Maybe not. But you don't have any reason to _distrust_ me either."

Wrong. _So _wrong. If only she knew just _how _wrong.

"You'll have to do better than that."

"Why?" she asks, shrugging haphazardly and crossing her ankles. She could probably stab him to death with those heals she's wearing. "You're somehow connected to this, Merlin. I don't know why, but Arthur wants to find you, and whether or not you really trust me, working with me has to be a better alternative than giving Arthur what he wants."

Yes. No. Maybe. Once, he'd known what it was Arthur wanted, but now that's just a convoluted mess, a little like everything else. "He's your brother," Merlin says slowly, amazed at how easily the words roll out on his tongue when they certainly never did back in Camelot. "Why are you working against him?"

First rule of this world right there: everyone he knew back in Camelot—they're going to have a motive. It may or may not be what it was the first time around. More importantly, what they say it is may not be what it _actually _is. And what he thinks he already knows about why Morgana is doing this? It could be completely wrong.

Carefully, Morgana draws her jacket a little closer to her body, and for just a moment, the way the streetlight—just a lone lamp post at the end of the ally—hits her face reminds him of how she looked at the end, a dark hood sloping down her forehead as she leaned over Arthur in his last moments.

A thin smile curls over her face, breaking the illusion. "I don't know, Merlin? Why don't you want him to find you? And why does he want to find _you_ so badly?"

Right. Well, about his only answer for that is to look away and shove his hands down into his pockets. Not a very good answer, but it's not like he can tell the truth.

"Exactly," Morgana murmurs. "You keep your secrets; I'll keep mine."

She can think that, but it's not much of a secret: Morgana is the kind of well-known secret that, while not talked about, tends to be known by everyone in certain circles. The kind of circles he's been frequenting lately, in fact. Besides, she always works against Arthur. He'd thought that might change in this lifetime, but whatever fate is, apparently Morgana and Arthur being at odds is part of it. He hadn't thought, though—never thought—that he'd ever see a day where Morgana might not be the one in the wrong.

"He was a savior at first, you know."

And why did he say that? Morgana doesn't know—doesn't know any of it, but… it's _Arthur_, and part of him still just can't believe….

Sometimes—sometimes he just tingles with it, rather like now. This is a new body, but his mind feels so terribly old, and the world fits too snuggly around all of it. There were things he knew—still knows—for sure: that spring would come to Camelot, that the streetlight illuminating this ally will eventually flicker and die—that Arthur, whatever his faults, is a good man. Things like that—they just _were, _or maybe _are, _as unchangeable as the wind snaking between the buildings and rubbing his face raw. He could pull his jacket up further, but instead he just looks at Morgana and tries not to shiver; if all those things are changeable—and still not all of them are—the wind might be too.

None of it feels real.

"A savior?" Morgana parrots, regarding him with a steely look, hard enough that her face tightens until he can see the dim light etched into the lines of her cheekbones. "Maybe," she says slowly, seeming to weight the words. "Maybe he was. But he didn't stay that way."

It takes him a moment to realize that what he's tasting in his mouth—it's blood. He's bitten down hard enough that he's driven his teeth down into his lip. "No. He didn't."

God only knows why feeling those words on his tongue causes any reaction—he's already tasting blood—but it does, and Merlin feels himself dropping his shoulders down into a hint of a slouch; and Morgana, a little like the person he loved once upon a time, seems to soften, not so far as to be anything weak—but, well, it's enough.

"You've already made your decision, haven't you?" she asks him, and, yes, that's a bit of pity in her voice.

He toes at a small puddle near his foot. "Maybe I have."

"That time between deciding something and admitting to yourself that you've decided it—it's not easy, is it?"

No. _No_. "I guess not."

And then, for just a few seconds, neither of them speaks. Water pools in the cracks of the road, around the toe of Morgana's shoes, but regardless of any of it, they simply stare at each other. No accusation, no hatred—just something indefinable in terms of anything more than the thin line of her mouth and the frown he knows he's wearing.

Merlin can hardly believe it when he hears himself breaking the silence: "I'll help you."

She just nods. "Good."

Turning to leave, she gives a small jerk of her head, indicating that she wants him to follow. He goes, not because he wants to or because he believes in her, but because what else can possibly be left for him to do? He will never believe in her, and it's a bitter notion flying in the face of the loyalty he had for her brother. Arthur may have returned, but, damn it all to Hell, this isn't a return like it should be. This isn't Camelot, and, this time, there isn't anything to do but slip out of the alley after Morgana, trying not to consider exactly what that means.

Maybe he should have let Arthur find him after all.

If it was just about him, maybe he would have.

* * *

[December 12th, 2013]

"You really think this will solve anything?" Arthur asks, sighing heavily as he glances back at the gun that Merlin has trained firmly on his chest. And this _is _Merlin. It would certainly be possible to fake appearances, but no one could ever fake what is so essentially Merlin—that manner, that belief in a good that never quite seems to disappear no matter what he's seen… and Arthur has missed that. Missed _Merlin_.

Merlin swallows hard. "This has to end, Arthur." His eyes flicker toward the opposite wall with a precision he's learned more solidly this time. It took him a long while to learn that back in Camelot. It should be a good thing—has probably saved Merlin's life more than a couple of times—and, yet, somehow, Arthur finds himself frowning. Merlin shouldn't have had to learn that. Arthur-he hadn't meant for it to happen quite like this. He ought to have protected Merlin… and he _would _have—would never have let him get quite like this if Merlin had just _let _him take that kind of care.

Sighing again, he takes a step toward Merlin; Merlin takes a step back. His finger doesn't tighten on the trigger. Very telling. "Where are you going to go, Merlin? The list of places you can run has gotten remarkably short."

"It doesn't matter."

"I think it does."

"No."

"Well. Go on then. Shoot me."

But he doesn't. It's not that he physically can't. Or, if he can't, Arthur certainly isn't able to claim that he knows about it. It's only that Merlin _won't_. A gamble? Oh, certainly, but it's not like _that _is anything new and, frankly, wagering on the fact that Merlin won't pull the trigger seems relatively safe in comparison to some of the other things he's risked everything on.

"_Don't, _Arthur." Another step. Merlin grits his teeth. _"Arthur_."

As if it's that simple. "Merlin, I'll bet you haven't even checked to see if that gun really works. You aren't going to shoot me." Another step forward.

For the first time, Merlin's hand shakes. It's barely perceptible, just a tremor in the fingers, slim and hardly there, but there's a little more daylight over the top of the barrel than there was before. "Is this the part where you tell me it doesn't work?"

A laugh bubbles up in Arthur's chest, completely unbidden. "Oh, no, as far as I know, it _does_."


	2. Chapter 2

[November 7th, 2013]

The first thing that Merlin sees when he enters the building of Morgana's choice is Gwen. Beautiful, lovely Gwen, who has never looked more perfect, even though she's dressed in baggy sweat pants and her hair is tossed carelessly up in a knot. He's seen her clothed in the finest splendor that Camelot has to offer, but presence isn't necessarily about beauty: she's never been more striking than she is right now.

It's been _years_. Decades. Centuries. Whatever.

Too long.

"This is Gwen," Morgana says as she shuts the door behind him. It swings closed, sealing them down into the little entrance room and cutting off the chill that had followed in after them. "But I suspect you already knew that."

"Nice to meet you."

It's not like Gwen remembers him, so he just inclines his head and grins when she offers him a little smile. And that—it's just—what if she had changed? He hasn't thought about it until now, but Arthur changed, and who would have known whether she'd still be like the Gwen he'd known. But that smile—it's reassuring. It's _Gwen_.

"I expect I look a little less impressive when I'm not on the telly," she says, twisting her hands. Nerves. Just like when she was younger and still a servant. The idea has him smiling all over again.

"No. Just different."

She nods slowly, her brow creasing right along with the downturn of her lips. "I suppose that makes sense."

"You look _better_."

Off to the side, Morgana gives a soft snort. When he turns to look, she's eyeing him speculatively, hands planted on her hips, one foot almost twitching like she wants to tap it—or possibly kick it right up his backside, which, for Morgana, would be something akin to a warning: she'll grind him right into the ground if he hurts Gwen. She was like that once—protective in a way Merlin didn't understand until he noticed the same traits in Arthur.

That's rather like a blow to the gut now.

It's possible some of that shows on his face—though, by now he ought to be pretty adept at hiding things like that—because Morgana's look eases and she relaxes her arms, shooting an easy glance at Gwen. Gwen, for her part, returns it smoothly, lips pursed and weight resting mostly on her right side as she leans toward the wall until her shoulder scrapes it.

"I'm surprised you'd take me straight here," Merlin finds himself saying after a few moments.

Morgana laughs, though there's no humor to the sound. "Do you really think this is the heart of everything?"

This? No. A dingy little entrance room, half below ground with windows only high up on the walls—which isn't saying much, given how low the ceilings are. It's not an implausibly small room, but the ceiling is close enough to his head—a couple of inches clearance, maybe—that he finds himself experiencing a niggling itch of claustrophobia. Maybe it'd be different if it were better lit or if the carpet weren't that dingy sort of red that might have been bright when it was first put in about thirty years ago when it was in style, but now just leaves him feeling a bit like he's in a cheap, pay-by-the-hour hotel. The kind with cockroaches.

He's had to stay in a few places of that caliber in recent days.

"How old are you, Merlin?"

It's an unexpected question, and he finds his gaze shifting away from Morgana—who is still looking at him a little like she'd look at a foolish, naïve child—to Gwen. It's not all that surprising to find her staring back at him in a way that's so much softer than Morgana could ever hope for: her eyes have narrowed slightly, but there's only concern in them, maybe laced with a bit of pity. He knows he looks young, but this—does he really look this bad?

"Doesn't matter," he says with a shrug. Not in the way they think it does, at least.

"Eighteen," Morgana says evenly.

Well, good for her. She's done her homework. She always did. Though, he does have to admit that it's a bit of a switch to see Gwen casting a frown at her for it. Even more surprisingly, Morgana's face softens out when she's presented with that: once, back in Camelot, Gwen had mattered to Morgana, and here—well, maybe that's not so lost this time around.

"If you like," he agrees simply. It's not true, of course. Trying to explain his real age, though? No. Just… no.

Gwen's hand on his arm startles him. "Where are your parents?" she asks, slipping her fingers away when he glances down at them. It just—no—he hadn't meant it like that. She can touch him. It's been so long since he's felt a friendly touch—one he doesn't have to question.

"Dead."

Across the room, Morgana just nods. "It's true."

No doubt then that she'd had access to the information Arthur has undoubtedly compiled on him this time around. Whether Arthur let her see that willingly is impossible to say for the time being.

"I'm sorry then," Gwen murmurs. Obviously means it too—that's clear enough. She would. Even when she was off being unfaithful to Arthur, she still _cared_. She always cares, and part of him would like to just sink down against her like the child he still is in this body and let her rock him until the world sinks away.

Morgana's murmured agreement of, "We all are," is startling enough to chase that thought away.

Too late he realizes that he's jerked his chin up, fixing his eyes on her with what is so obviously surprise that there's no use pretending that his eyebrows aren't halfway up into his hairline.

"What?" Morgana asks, crossing her arms testily. "I am. Why wouldn't I be? I know how they died, Merlin—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Morgana shuts her mouth. That's… unexpected. But good. _Very _good. He can't—not now…

But Gwen doesn't know: that much is obvious in the softening in her cheeks—that kind of slack-jawed expression that only comes in confusion. She'll have to be told, of course. It should be now. Waiting—it's only going to hurt more.

Of course, it hurts anyway to swallow past the lump in his throat—who says betrayal isn't a tangible thing?—but that's pretty par for the course these days. "They tried to arrest my father. It went wrong." Yes. Balinor Emrys. It's not like Arthur didn't _know _who that was, is, whatever. And if there had been a Balinor, there had to be a son, and, suddenly, Merlin hadn't been able to sit back on the sidelines anymore and just wonder how it had all gone to Hell. Oh, no—Arthur hadn't been willing to allow it. And still, Merlin hadn't been able to bring himself to fight. Until… "He was killed trying to fight them off."

It had and hadn't been a surprise. Everyone knows that Arthur's men aren't gentle. Magic users slated for arrest—Arthur's men have orders to use force if necessary. Lots of force. And they'd known Arthur was looking for them. But… maybe it's naive, but Merlin hadn't thought Arthur would give a kill order. He might not have. Impossible to tell, really, because unless he wants to ask Arthur directly, he'll never get that information.

And he's not planning on seeing Arthur. Not ever. Or at least not soon.

Gwen's practically staring a hole through him, brown eyes wide. There's no surprise there, and, well, there wouldn't be: she's married to Arthur. Estranged, yes—that's probably how someone allied with an underground movement to take down her husband would be described—but still married.

Pity, then. He _hates _pity. "My mother—they—she died a little while after that. Car accidenct." Though, the "accident" part is debatable.

The thing is, Gwen looks genuinely _sorry_, like she thinks this is her fault. Right along with the fall of Rome. Maybe even the dark ages. Although, she did have a hand in Camelot's fall. But this? Never this. "But your mother wasn't magic—" she tries to say, hand skipping up to her mouth, fingers hovering.

Morgana just laughs, hard and cold. "No. But his father was. And that meant his mother probably knew something. And if there was magic in the father, the son—"

"None of your business," Merlin hears himself snapping.

Maybe she even agrees, because she nods, fingers tightening on her elbows where her arms are still crossed. "Little late for that, isn't it, Merlin? There's something about you, and it's something Arthur wants, badly enough that he's willing to pull out all the stops to find you." Finally, she drops her arms and glides forward, swinging her hips sharply around just quickly enough to pull herself between him and Gwen. She's too close now—half a foot at most from his face, but the venom there—it doesn't really seem to be for him. "You're not the only one with magic. But you're the one my brother wants the most. Why is that?"

_Oh, if only you knew, Morgana…_ "I don't know."

The green of her eyes narrows into slits, pinched by the skin. "You—"

"Leave him be, Morgana."

Somehow, when he wasn't looking, Gwen has managed to slip forward, one hand settling gently on Morgana's elbow. Her fingers don't bear down—there's no command in the touch—but it _is_ a request.

Watching Morgana heed it—it's like something slippery settling in his gut, sliding up slowly through his throat and choking him. Gwen. Morgana. Like they _were_. Why not Arthur too?

_What went wrong?_

"Do you have any family left at all, Merlin?" Gwen asks after a few moments.

It's easier just to shake his head. It's not like he could form words right now anyway.

"Any place to go?"

"No." Good God, is that his voice? He shouldn't sound like that—like someone's wringing his throat.

To Gwen's credit, she only gives him a small smile. _Nothing to worry about _her eyes say, even if the tension in her mouth screams _I'm sorry_. "He'll be staying here, then?" she asks Morgana, though her tone, while polite, clearly doesn't make it a question.

Merlin has to fight the impulse to close his eyes. She should have been a mother. Maybe then, maybe if she and Arthur had managed a baby…. She would have been a good mother, caring like this.

_Why did everything go wrong? _

"I think that would be best," Morgana agrees, and surprisingly, there's nothing grudging in her voice. "Half of Britain is looking for you."

"Only half?" he manages, though he can feel that his smile isn't anywhere near genuine.

Leave it to Morgana to snort and still manage to somehow make it striking. He'll give that to her—even when she was trying to curse the life out of his body, she was always _striking_.

"Yes," she says, grinning. How very wolfish… really, though, he's missed it—missed having this on his side. "The rest are looking for _me_."

Insane and too cavalier? Oh, yes. Call it black humor, call it gallows humor, call it whatever anyone likes, but he feels a laugh pushing up from his chest, spilling out his throat, and it's _good_. Sometimes, that's just what laughing in fate's face is.

"Then I suppose they'll either find us together or never find us at all."

Has he said something wrong? Her stare is strangely fixed, and the way she's tilting her head, almost confused—but, no, there's a smile. "You know, Merlin," she says slowly, tongue darting out to wet her lips. "I think I'm going to like you."

That would certainly be a change-up.

"Oh, yeah?" A quick glance at Gwen makes it pretty clear that she's thinking the same way. Only, there's a little bit of a flush to her cheeks—just contentment, and sometimes he does forget that he's not the only one stripped of that sort of thing these days. These little moments when things go right—they're precious to more people than just him.

"Yeah," Morgana echoes, smiling with all her teeth. "Yes."

* * *

[Camlann]

A life for a life for a life for a life. There is always payment. Deferred, withheld, immediate, but always a collection, somehow, sometime.

"Don't do it." Bubbles of blood. He can taste it at his mouth. He's dying. God, he's dying.

"Arthur—don't—keep your eyes open—"

Dirt cradles his cheek, and the world rocks, graying. He blinks. Stay awake. Or die. Choose one. But do it before Merlin does… whatever he's trying. Die. Live. So similar. So close.

"You know the price, Merlin," she says, soft, like she used to be. He'd never understood how she'd changed. Her eyes are the same, though, green, like his sister—the one he knew, before she was someone else. Morgana, Morgana…

"It can have my life!"

"_This_ life. And it's not just you, Merlin. It could turn out worse."

He could—_if _he could, he'd reach up, but his hand is heavy, weighted to the ground. Merlin, Morgana—can't they hear him? Hear what he can't ask? He thinks he groans then, and he must have, because Merlin's hand slaps at his cheek—"stay awake, stay awake"—and somewhere above him, the sky becomes Morgana, dressed in black.

* * *

[December 12th, 2013]

"Arthur, just—just don't—"

Right now, Merlin really could be all of eighteen again. Maybe. That might not be it—he was always a bit like this, no matter how old he got. Never could stomach killing.

It's an admirable trait. It would have been nice to have had that luxury.

Sighing heavily, Arthur takes a final few steps forward until the gun is pressed firmly up to his chest. All it would take is just a twitch of Merlin's finger, almost nothing, really—cloud light pressure—and it'd all be over for another thousand years or so. Possibly. Hard to tell.

The shot never comes.

Merlin's eyes flutter closed.

"That's what I thought," Arthur whispers. Merlin, Merlin, Merlin—dear, squeamish Merlin. "No shame in it, Merlin."

When Arthur's hand wraps around the gun, there's a surge of real affection—he can feel it pulling veins tight in his chest as surely as a warm campfire always pleasantly shrank his skin, leaving it tight over his fingers. Merlin wanted to be loyal—that's clear enough. He just never understood, and who could expect him to? He lives in a world that's so much more black and white. Camelot was never that, but it was _closer_, before all the biological warfare and nuclear weapons and loads of other madness that make it very possible for one man to end the world. It wouldn't take much, and if one man can destroy everything, then the one who won't choose to do so must be the only one to have that power. It was that simple in Camelot, still is in today's world-anywhere. This is his destiny—to protect by ruling. But Merlin can't understand that yet. All he sees is magic being dampened.

"I don't blame you, you know," he tells Merlin softly as he removes the gun from Merlin's hand. Merlin's fingers slide after it, trailing over hard metal, but they do eventually part company, letting Arthur have it. It's true that his face twists miserably as he lets it go, and his hand remains slightly outstretched for more seconds than Arthur cares to think about, but he does release it.

Clicking the safety on, Arthur tosses it away. Let it rest in some corner for now. He'll get it later.

Sharp blue eyes suddenly jerk up, staring into his. Merlin isn't quite crying, but there are tears hanging in his eyes, waves in his irises, turning over like his thoughts, or maybe like the ocean. Hard to tell—Arthur was never much one for poetic images, and thoughts like that—they just seem cliché. Anything he tried, he did for Gwen, and, well, so much for that poetic end…

Though, it is interesting to read about himself. Malory. Tennyson. White. Each a different take on what went wrong… and they always seem to make Camlann sound so different from what it was.

"But I do blame _you_," Merlin hisses, raking his sleeve across his face, smearing away the tears.

Arthur just shrugs. "If it helps you. But can you really not see why I did it, Merlin?"

Rage whips through Merlin's face, sword-edge sharp. "All I see, Arthur, is that you're hunting people like _me_. And this isn't Albion. The _world_ is not Albion!"

That does rankle, he has to admit. Why can't he just _see? _"And conquering is acceptable on only a small scale? 'Unite Albion, Arthur.' 'It's your destiny, Arthur.' 'Albion needs you.' Why not the world then, Merlin? The problems are the same. Lack of justice. Lack of order. All those reasons that it was good for me to conquer Albion—they're true now too. What makes this situation different?"

"The world has changed, Arthur!" he snaps, fingers hovering at his sides. A few more minutes and they'll probably end up tugging at his hair in frustration. "It's not a world of kings anymore. It's not the same."

"It isn't? Or you don't want it to be?"

Frankly, it's no surprise that this is Merlin's breaking point. Arthur knows the signs: sees the way Merlin's jaw drops open, a little slack as he jerks back, recoiling. Recoiling from _Arthur_. Honestly, though, he hadn't meant it like that, _Merlin, don't be so sensitive_. But, no—he really shouldn't have pushed. Merlin didn't deserve it. Stupid as Merlin is being, it was uncalled for—a rare tactical mistake.

Like all mistakes, though, there's nothing to do but fix it, and so he reaches out, dropping his hand down onto Merlin's shoulder. To the boy's credit—and how strange it still is to think of him like that—he doesn't flinch. He even holds Arthur's stare.

_Merlin, you never change. Thank you for never changing_.

He's smiling—he can feel it. Merlin must be able to see it too, but he says nothing. Maybe he knows it's out of the sheer joy of finding Merlin the same in this—in this questioning of Arthur's authority. Maybe he doesn't know that. But, regardless, this is the Merlin he remembers. His friend. Really, just his, because destiny gave Merlin to him. The best friend he ever had. Family. Two sides of the same coin. In some ways, Merlin is just an extension of him in another person, a little like a twin. Conceived in destiny's womb.

_The half can never truly hate that which makes it whole_.

No, he thinks, smile sliding more firmly into place even as he sees the growing anger on Merlin's face. No, Merlin will never hate him. Arthur may never have heard the dragon's prophecy himself, but Merlin believes it, and that's enough.

Anyway, the prophecy is true.

And if it's not, Merlin makes it true for himself just through his belief.

"I'm sorry about the magic, Merlin," he says gently. "But you have to be able to see just how dangerous it can be in today's age. Anyway, I'm not taking it away—only adding an off-switch, if you will."

"Didn't you learn from your father?!" Merlin snarls, and it's not like Arthur didn't see it coming, but it's still not quite _pleasant _when Merlin launches a fist at his face. Even so, it _is _fitting: as he catches Merlin's fist, fingers tightening around knuckles and _twisting, _he can almost smell the aroma of the market, of the open air in Camelot on a bright day when a mouthy boy walked into town and called him out.

"Of course I did," he answers calmly, holding Merlin firmly, twisting his arm up behind him. Like always, though, Merlin doesn't quit: he keeps right on struggling, pained noises breaking out of his lips until it almost sounds like he's choking on them. "Good Lord, Merlin, hundreds of years and you _still _haven't learned how to properly walk on your knees."

Merlin goes still against him. "I hate you."

No. He doesn't. If he did, Arthur would have a bullet in his chest. Merlin never knew how to hate. "I did learn from my father," he tells Merlin, words gentle where his hands aren't. No, not too rough—bruises if necessary, but nothing more. "His mistake was in banning magic. I don't want to ban it—I want to make sure it's used the way it should be."

Another sharp jerk from Merlin, twisting the skin of Arthur's palms where he's got a grip. The wet, breathy cough of pain—that's not a good sign. Damn Merlin, fighting to the point of hurting himself. Damn him.

"Let me go, Arthur."

Enough of this. This is getting them nowhere. "You know better."

"I won't help you."

Maybe not yet. Still, there's something in the way Merlin stops struggling when Arthur's free hand goes to his neck, not forcing, but just holding gently, intimate, like they used to be. Vaguely, he hears soft shushing noises, realizes they're coming from him, but it's got Merlin stilling, so he makes no effort to check himself. Anyway, the sounds feel at home on his lips—it's taken him this long to find Merlin, and if a little blow to his pride is what it takes to make things better, he'll do it.

"I _won't _help you."

"And what do you think that will do?"

"I'm of no use to you."

Which is really just like saying a broken arm is of no use to him: it's not, but that doesn't mean he doesn't still want it. It's part of him in the same way that Merlin is, for his cause or not. And besides, just because an arm is broken doesn't mean it can't be fixed. "You'll still stay until you are of some use," he says simply.

Merlin twitches a little against the hand on the back of his neck. "You can't—"

"I protect those I care about, Merlin. You know that. I protected Gwen, even after she betrayed me. I even protected Lancelot as best I could. And Morgana—I never could quite bring myself to kill her, could I?"

"Arthur—"

"It's destiny, Merlin. Are you going to fight that?"

This time, Merlin's muscles surge under his hand, twisting and tensing. "Who says it's destiny this time around?"

Who says? Such a foolish question. No one ever had to say, and Merlin _knows _that. These things—they just _are_.

"Merlin," he finds himself saying, smiling gently, "how can it not be?"


	3. Chapter 3

[November 20th, 2007]

Morgana was at least fifteen before she realized that not all people lived lives like hers. Oh, she'd known it in the abstract, in the kind of way that you look at a historical site and imagine people living there once upon a time, but she hadn't really been able to connect with it. Dinner parties and perfect smiles, good manners and snooty politicians—those things had been her life. From the time she'd been ten years old, her father, Gorlois, was already bringing her to those things. And why not? Even that young, she'd known how to charm, and she hadn't been above using it.

Then she'd met Gwen.

Gwen wasn't anything spectacular in the ways that counted for someone of Morgana's station. But that-_that_ had been what had made her _fascinating_. Gwen was _nice_, and as far as Morgana had been able to see, she didn't have a reason to be. The people she was used to—they were nice because it might get them something. But Gwen—that was just who she was.

"Morgana?"

Startled, Morgana turns away from the window. Immediately, she wishes she hadn't: there's something about seeing the room—her room—filled with boxes that ices something inside of her.

But it's no worse than the thought of staying here.

Tiredly, she pushes a piece of hair out of her face, her fingers slipping on the silky strands. "Yes, Gwen?"

"The movers are here."

Two days after her father's funeral, and everything is packed, ready to go. She really should commend them for their efficiency, but somehow it just leaves her feeling as empty as the house. She's lived in this place for years, and yet it can all be packed away and erased in mere days. Soon, someone else will live here, and it'll be like she was never present at all—like her _father _was never here at all.

"All right. Tell them to come up."

Gwen doesn't move: she just stands in the doorway, her forehead creased with lines of worry and her hands twisting nervously in her skirt. "Morgana—"

"There's nothing left for me here, Gwen," she says, cutting her off with a wave of her hand. Even that feels heavy, the effort needed to move her limb almost not worth it. She'd like to sleep, she really would, but the nightmares…

A few seconds stretch by, and then Gwen looks away, her mouth smearing out of place with a pronounced frown. "Uther Pendragon is waiting downstairs as well."

Another sigh. Of course he is. Of _course _he is. "Tell him I'll be right down."

* * *

[November 7th, 2013]

"You'll stay here."

Nodding in Morgana's general direction, Merlin allots himself a moment to scan the room. It's not a bad place—a bit small, maybe, but that's rather to be expected given the circumstances. It's not like Morgana can rent out luxury flats when the entirety of Britain is looking for her. Honestly, it's a wonder Morgana even managed _this._

He should thank her. This will mean no more nights hiding, sometimes in motels, but more often on the streets. He'll get decent meals here. He _should _thank her, and he's about to—he really is—but the words never quite make it past the tips of his lips: instead, the door swings open, and, and—

Good God. He'd never thought. He probably should have. No one important seems to stay dead—they're all connected—but there is just something so wrong about seeing the small figure standing in the doorway, dressed in a pair of flannel pajamas—spaceships, and how much more innocuous can you get?—with a hesitant smile hanging on his lips.

He'd known Morgana had a child… but she'd disappeared from the public eye soon after. All records of the child had been kept carefully out of the press. There was no way to know that _this…._

"What is it, Mordred?" Morgana asks, glancing over at the boy. There's no frustration in her face at the interruption. If anything, she looks like this is commonplace, almost expected.

"Percival's sick, Mum. He's throwing up and everything."

Morgana curses quietly under her breath. She probably doesn't intend Mordred to hear, but it's pretty clear from the amused twist of his lips that he does.

"We don't have any—" Gwen tries to say.

All that gets her is a sharp nod from Morgana. "I know."

Whatever it is that they don't have—probably medical supplies—Morgana regroups quickly. Seconds later she's turning to Merlin, and, yes, that is a bit surprising. She doesn't trust him. He knows that. He doesn't really trust her. But this—it's possible that _this _is the kind of thing that bridges that. You don't always have to trust to rely: occasionally you just have to take what you can get.

"Percival is the only surviving member of his family," Morgana tells him, quick and clipped as she tucks her hands behind her back and holds his gaze firmly. "No magic, but his family tried to aid in a militant effort. They were, of course, detained. They might still be alive. They might not. But the night they were taken, Percival was staying over at a friend's house."

It pretty well goes without saying that the family of said friend probably had rebel sympathies. These days, you just don't associate with anyone who doesn't think like you do, and you certainly don't entrust your children to them if they don't hold the same principles.

"And?" His eyes flicker toward Mordred, who is still standing in the doorway, arms crossed as he leans against the doorframe. He can't be more than six, and the way he's standing—goodness, he looks like Morgana in his mannerisms.

"And they knew people were going to come looking for Percival."

Merlin nods, because, yes, he knows. Say what you like about Arthur, but if he can help it, he's not going to leave a child abandoned. Of course, they'll go into care, which might be worse than being left alone. Oh, they'll be safe, well fed, and cared for, but they'll be trained to view things the _proper _way. No chance to ever think for themselves—not really. And if they do have magic, well, that won't remain unchecked for long.

"I'm guessing the people Percival was staying with knew someone you were working with?" he replies tonelessly.

"Yes. We took him in."

"You personally?"

Morgana's eyes narrow, seeming darker as her pupils expand at the lack of entering light and fill out the green. For a moment it doesn't seem that she'll answer; she chews the inside of her cheek, running her gaze up and down, assessing, taking all of him in.

Whatever she sees, it settles her: she relaxes, untucking her hands from behind her. Then, with a small nod, she turns her back on him and strides across the room, those heels he'd thought so impractical earlier clicking with every step as she approaches Mordred.

No sound of heels warns him of Gwen's approach, but her presence never was all that startling. Finding her suddenly standing at his side is rather soothing, actually. "So, she'll take me to her own personal home, but not the base?" he asks once Morgana has swept out through a door, Mordred on her heels.

Gwen gives him a small smile, though her eyes remain fixed on the door that Morgana disappeared through. "There's no one base, Merlin. And you're foolish if you think she'll stay here long."

Fair enough. "Mordred is hers then?"

"Yes."

"And his father?"

He loves Gwen. He does. Truly, he _does_, but God help anyone who threatens something she loves. That loyalty—it's the very thing he never understood about her. She can love _so much_, and yet she can betray. It never made sense. It still doesn't, but that won't ever mitigate the ferocity in her eyes that only dredges up when she's moved to protect something.

It's not as though she's aware he knows her well enough to see it now. If she was aware, she'd probably guess that she's made it all too clear that he's hit on something important.

Who is Mordred's father?

"Doesn't matter," Gwen replies a bit tersely, eyelashes fanning up and down as she blinks just a little too rapidly. "He's not involved."

The clench of her fists, the hard line of her jaw—she's just daring him to push further, but, really, he just doesn't want to. There are things he needs to know—this will be something he needs to know, no doubt—but does he need to know if from _Gwen_? The churning in the bottom of his gut seems to protest—_you don't want this answer from her_—and it's true. He doesn't want to find out from Gwen.

Merlin looks away. "All right."

It could be a foolish decision, or it could be the best thing he's decided in months, because that sunny smile Gwen gives him, showing all her teeth, nestled behind generous lips—it's so welcoming that he could just let it—the feeling of it—wash over him until he's entirely warm with it. It's been a very long time since anyone has cared like Gwen can.

"I'll show you to where you'll be sleeping," she says, this time more open, matching that smile. Her shoulders have eased back, and it doesn't take a genius to know that something—some sort of understanding—has been struck here. They were friends back in Camelot because of things like this, and is it too much to hope that this might be the same?

"I'd like that," is all he says before he falls into step behind her.

* * *

[December 12th, 2013]

"Sit down, Merlin."

Really, he better, because the chances of him being able to stand on own two feet much longer are shrinking by the moment. The gray pallor he's got to his face—it's not encouraging.

Making things easy, though? It was _never _Merlin's preferred method of living.

"Thanks," Merlin mutters, jerking his head away and looking off at some spot on the far wall. There's some modern painting hanging there that reminds Arthur strangely of a dishwasher in bright colors, but eye-catching or not, he can't imagine that Merlin actually cares to look at that. "Thanks," he says again, laughing until the noise cracks and ebbs away, "but you're touched in the head if you think I will."

How can he not laugh at that? Merlin, always with the mouthy replies. "You'll fall. Remember, you haven't got your magic here—"

"Thanks to _you_—"

"—and the way you're looking right now, a strong wind—possibly even the air conditioning—could blow you over."

"You're coming to the game a bit late to be concerned about my health, Arthur."

Now that's just not fair. Frowning, he turns away from Merlin and moves to the side of the room—yes, it _was _a wise decision to choose a room not overly large, because he already feels like he and Merlin are drowning in this one—where there's a small bar. Drinks. Yes. It's not the wine Merlin used to serve him—they don't make that anymore, at least not like they used to—but there's still something comforting about the splash of liquid into a cup, even if that cup is now a glass. Just for old time's sake, maybe he'll get a goblet or a mug. Merlin, when he's in a better mood, might find that amusing. It's the sort of thing he'd like.

"I'd have been present sooner if you had let me find you," he points out as he pours the wine.

Merlin's gaze follows him, but he doesn't step forward, and after a few moments Arthur, tired of waiting, picks the glass up in his hand and brings it to him. The hesitant jerkiness in Merlin's fingers is a bit worrying—will he even take the glass?—but after a few seconds of just staring at the offering, he does close his hand around it. Thank God for small miracles.

"I'm sure you would have been," he mutters, looking bitterly away.

Again at that wall. Really, one can only stare at that painting for so long—why did his designer even choose it? "Honestly, Merlin, I doubt you like modern art; stop studying the wall. You never used to be like this."

He's not quite ready for the way Merlin jumps back, wine sloshing over the edge of the cup. "Well, bloody hell, Arthur," he says, and is he _laughing _at this? Yes, yes he is, and he looks _hysterical_, with that shine to his eyes, chest pumping up and down too fast to be normal.

"_Mer_lin—" He'll hyperventilate if he doesn't stop—

But he _doesn't_ stop.

"Never used to be like this? Arthur, you think _I _am the one who's changed?"

"Merlin, stop it, don't—" Merlin skitters away from his touch when he reaches out, but there is at least some silver lining in that: he takes one look at the glass in his hand, laughs a little more, sounding sicker by the moment, and then he tips the glass back and downs it all in one go. It wasn't watered. That's got to burn. "_Merlin_!"

Another step back, but at least this time he's stopped laughing. Unfortunately, the way he's raking his hand through his hair—it's not much better. If that wine would just kick in…

It's clear the second that Merlin realizes the wine is drugged. The way he stops, hands falling to his sides—how he turns slowly, so slowly, to look at Arthur, eyebrows pinching in and lips pursing. "That was so stupid of me," is all he says, looking toward the glass in his hand.

And then he turns and hurls it at the wall.

There's really no way to blame him for that, but still, Arthur carefully takes a step towards Merlin, who, apparently realizing just how useless it'll be to try to slip away at this point, just lets him. There's a sort of tired defeat in that, though, that can't be anything but disturbing: Merlin's eyes look more gray like this, like the life that's there is starting to wither. "You'll feel better when you wake up," Arthur hears himself promise. Don't look at the wine stain on the wall. Don't see the shattered glass on the carpet. It doesn't mean _anything_.

Merlin just gives him a caustic smile. "Oh? And how do you reckon?"

He settles his hands gently on Merlin's elbows, bracing him. Already Merlin is starting to sway, his eyes going a little unfocused. It matters, though, the way Merlin leans into him, letting Arthur take his weight. Merlin will deny it—will deny any sort of remaining trust, but _it is there_. "You won't have to be awake for any of it. And I'm not taking your magic away. It will still be there when you wake up."

Merlin's lips draw back in what is probably supposed to be a bitter smile but really looks more like a snarl. "Arthur—Arthur, how can you do this? I—I couldn't do anything differently—how could you?" He shakes his head almost frantically, hair flopping down into his eyes as he shivers against Arthur's fingers. "You're different, and I'm—I'm not. Was supposed to kill you. And I _can't_."

Abruptly, he pitches forward and into Arthur's chest. Catching him—it's just like it was whenever he had to do it back in Camelot. That time with the poisoned chalice is particularly memorable. Moving Merlin back to his quarters then might have even been more difficult, actually—Merlin seems to have lost weight in the recent months. Yet another thing to berate Morgana for, but there will be time enough for that when he catches up with her too.

"Kill me, Merlin? After all the times you were willing to exchange your life for mine, I rather think it would be a bit like killing yourself."

"Maybe." He's almost incoherent now, just a dead weight, clinging. His grip will probably leave bruises, what with the way he's clutching Arthur's upper arms like he's afraid to let go. Even with his head falling forward down onto Arthur's shoulder, he still doesn't let go. That's got to mean something, right? "Maybe. Might—I might—be… might be bad as you. Did I do this? Did I—_did I_?"

"No, Merlin." A quick exhale then, because Merlin's not heavy, but dead weight is never _light_. Just a few more seconds, then he can lower Merlin to the ground. Just a few more… "You're the best friend I've ever had, and I won't let anything happen to you, but you didn't _do this_."

"Were…" Merlin stops, swallowing. "Were we… ever friends?"

That at least deserves some thought, though not for the reasons Merlin thinks. "Maybe not," Arthur admits finally, just as Merlin's eyes are slipping closed. "If there were a word for bound by destiny, that's what we'd be. Friendship can't describe something like that—being friends doesn't matter enough to be what we are."

Merlin sighs against him. He's almost out of it. He'll need help once he's fully unconscious—a proper wash, maybe even an IV. Where the hell has he even been in the last year?

"Arthur…"

"Yes. I'm here, Merlin, you know that."

A deep, even breath is his only answer. It could be a sigh. It could be the last of Merlin's consciousness. Hard to tell.

Finally, though, Arthur just reaches down and scoops Merlin up. Too light—entirely too light. Merlin—he'll need a lot of things. Food, a bath, proper care, and obviously some time. He'll need to understand, and no one has helped him with that, has cared like Arthur cares to help him into that. Getting Merlin back—it's a little like getting a part of himself back, actually. And nothing matters more than putting this all back together.

"It's destiny for a reason, Merlin," he murmurs. "And that's not something you can change, whether or not you want to."

* * *

[August 25th, 2007]

"So you're Morgana."

It wasn't intended as a question, and she doesn't mean to take it like one. Blonde, rude, and smirking doesn't deserve the courtesy. "I'm not drunk enough for this," she says irritably, signaling to the bartender for another drink.

"It's not exactly a prime place to get drunk."

"A social function? I rather think it is." Does he really not think half these people are in their cups? Just because Mrs. So-and-so has a lovely dress and perfectly coiffed hair does not mean she's beyond reproach. "I don't know how you manage, but about the only time I can talk to half these people is when I'm drunk."

That at least draws a smile—a real one; not the smarmy smirk he's been displaying thus far—out of him, and uninvited, he leans over against the bar next to her. A few feet away some random associate of his father's—because who isn't an associate of Uther's?—glances at them with interest, but he doesn't say anything before he shifts away a few moments later, pretending he never looked at all. "I really wasn't looking forward to meeting you, you know," he says almost conversationally.

Does he really think that's acceptable for a first conversation? Actually, it could be. Yes, it really could. Circumstances and all that. "Mutual," she says, shrugging and accepting the drink from the bartender.

She gets flashed a smile for her trouble. "Yeah?" And how does anyone look so pleased at being told they're not wanted? "C'mon, I don't believe that."

"Then you're an idiot as well as a prat."

"You don't," he says, raising his eyebrow with a bit of irritation now, "know me."

"And, frankly, I'm satisfied with that."

One blink, then another, before Arthur Pendragon looks away, signaling the bartender for a drink for himself as well. Just as well. If they're going to have what's looking to be an inevitable conversation, they'll both need alcohol in their systems.

"Look," she says, cutting him off with a flip of her hand before he gets around to opening that big mouth again, "your father hasn't been welcome at my house in years, and God knows why he thinks he needs to help me now, but I can assure you, _I don't want his help_. Or yours."

"Strange." He shrugs and takes a drink. "Because your mother seemed to think you needed it."

Damn him to Hell. Both him and Uther. What right did Pendragon junior have to see that letter? None. None at _all_. "God knows why," she all but snarls. "And just because my mother left your father some strange letter with a reason good enough to touch whatever heart your father has, it doesn't mean _I _want your help."

There is nothing attractive about the way his brows pinch together as he regards her. He shouldn't be conscious of the fact that, sitting like this, her dress is just low enough for him to—oh, yes, and there he goes. "Eyes on my face," she snaps.

He laughs. "Then don't wear a dress like that."

"I didn't say I didn't want people to look. I just don't want _you _to."

Another smile, this one wide enough to display teeth that are slightly crooked. Didn't Uther Pendragon have the money to pay for braces? "I didn't read the letter, you know," he says finally, leaning back in his chair and taking another sip. "I don't know what your mother said to my father."

"But you know he said something."

"At this point, most people do."

Bother the fact that she's at a political function: she flips him a rude gesture. If anything, though, he looks amused, almost entertained, and she really only succeeds in drawing the wide-eyed stares of a few society wives standing nearby. Well, good for them. It's not like she cares for the opinion of someone who appears to have a bird nesting in her hair. Honestly, who told Mrs. What's-Her-Name that her hair looks good like that? And the lady next to her—her husband is sleeping with her best friend, which everyone seems to know except for her. They can damn well concentrate on their own lives before they pick at hers.

"Come have a dance with me," Arthur says abruptly, placing his glace down on the nearest surface.

When she was younger, her mother warned her that if she rolled her eyes too much they'd get stuck. But this boy? He makes the possibility worth it. "I'm afraid I'd have to be _much _more drunk before I'd consider that."

Goodness, that wasn't a _challenge_. Already, though, he's flagging down the bartender. "She'll have another one," he says, crossing his arms and grinning. "Something strong."


	4. Chapter 4

[November 8th, 2013]

"I really don't trust you, you know," Morgana says.

Merlin looks up from where he's tapping his fingers against the tabletop. "No, really?"

"And I want you to know that if you even _think _of selling us out, I'll cut your lying tongue out and shove it down your throat."

Charming as ever, Morgana is. "Sounds unpleasant," he mutters a bit tonelessly, going back to his tapping.

"I'm not joking."

"Didn't think you were." _Tap, tap, tap_.

Morgana's scare tactics probably work on other people. Once, they worked on him. Of course, by this point in his life, he's seen her raze whole towns out of malice, so the fact that this time she's actually fighting for the same thing as he is leaves her lacking the amount of punch she did before. At least she's not actively trying to kill him—she's only threatening to try.

He'll pay attention when she actually starts actively trying to murder him again.

When he finally does look up, it's to find her scowling. She doesn't look quite so pretty like that. Oh, breathtaking, certainly, but only the sort of man who fancies getting stabbed in his sleep would want her when she looks like that.

Apparently fed up with his half-attention, she throws something onto the table in front of him.

"What's that?" Sitting here in a small room with no windows, poorly lit—he can't believe it's anything good. When she'd come back from checking on Percival, she'd pulled him right in here, and one look at the peeling brown wallpaper and dusty table and he'd doubted this meeting was going to be a good one. So far she's proving him right.

"Show of good faith."

Carefully, he reaches out and pulls the folder toward him. It's not anything particularly special to look at: just a regular plastic binder, dark blue, unlabeled. The material feels a bit tacky under his touch, and it's easy to pull it back with the pads of his fingers until the cover opens and flops away to reveal the first page.

Oh. Well.

As far as good faith goes, what he sees doesn't give him a lot of faith in himself. That's… him, right there, easily photographed. Arthur… he's been extensive. And if he's got this much, Merlin has to admit that he's done a pretty lousy job covering his tracks.

"If I were a psychopath, I might be honored by the amount of time he's spent on this," Merlin admits, skimming his fingers over the sheets.

Morgana leans back and cracks her knuckles. "I think you still should."

Every school picture. Notices of his marks in school. Pictures of the inside of his house where he grew up. Shots taken of him on the streets—and that really does explain all those times he felt a warning prickle deep in the core of his magic. If he hadn't had that warning, whoever had the camera probably would have gotten more than a blurry photo of him walking in a crowd before he disappeared.

There are, of course, no doctor's records—he never went to the doctor. Why would he? He'd had magic. His parents hadn't wanted that discovered, obviously for good reason. Just about every other vital stat is there, though: height, age, approximate weight, known habits, bank account status—before he stopped using it—and list of places he's been sighted. Even friends, people he associated with. Things about his parents. His genealogy this time around.

There's no question that Arthur wants to find him very, _very_ badly.

"How did you get a hold of this?" he asks as he flips the page and finds a map detailing all of his suspected locations. It's scarily accurate, which is more than a little irritating—he thought he'd done better than this.

"Informant in his office."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. And he's the reason you're here. He vouched for you."

Now that's interesting: already he's leaning forward, waiting… because she'll come out with it soon. She always did like her suspense, but it's the reveal she truly revels in.

Accordingly, she leans forward, placing her hands flat down on the table in front of her. "A Lance DuLac?"

Hot. Right up his skin, flushing all the way up his neck, and then it just drains away until he can't feel anything at all. Morgana is looking at him strangely, so it probably shows, but he can't be pressed to care much at the moment. Lancelot. He'd thought… well, when Lance had joined up with the government, wanting to do big things—to help—Merlin had been sure that this was just one more thing that was going to be different. Sure, Lance had still been earnest as ever, determined to do good, but he'd been trying to do it for the wrong side… a little like Arthur.

It hadn't started out so bad, though—Arthur's government, that is. At first, he'd just been cleaning up everyone else's messes. And Lance had wanted to help.

"Apparently when he realized what was going on with magic, he defected. Arthur—I guess he didn't suspect."

Probably not. Any betrayal Arthur expected from Lance likely had to do with Gwen. Any suspicious behavior was probably just chalked up to Lancelot sleeping with Arthur's wife. Probably this time Arthur even expected it.

God only knows why he married Gwen a _second _time.

"Where is Lance?" Pretty damn hard to talk when his mouth feels like cotton, but he manages it.

"At the moment? Still employed by Arthur."

"And you're letting him stay? You know it's only a matter of time before Arthur realizes—"

"And what?" she snaps, bracing one foot on the table leg. "You think we don't lose anyone in something like this? I'm not going to pull out one of the best resources we have just because this is dangerous. It's all dangerous. Just living is dangerous now."

Yeah, she would think that. Like lives don't matter. "You shouldn't take unnecessary risks!"

"I think it's pretty well necessary, Merlin."

Breathe in, breathe out. It's just… this is not what he wanted. He did this. He could have stopped it, let Arthur die at Camlann.

Looking away, he swallows. Guilt—it never fails to taste bitter. "All right," he says slowly, nodding and hating the way she hardly even blinks. "Arthur knows a lot about me. What's that to you?"

She merely shrugs, tongue darting out to wet her lips. "He'll risk a lot to get what he wants. And I think there's something about you that's got him wanting to find you badly enough to take those risks."

That's an understatement. "All right. Say that's true. What does that mean for your plans?"

She doesn't bother denying that she _does _have plans. He never expected her to, and so he just follows her hand with his eyes as she taps her fingers rapidly down in succession, beating out a noise on the tabletop like he was doing only moments before. "I want to use you to draw him out."

Good God, it's going to be like working with Arthur all over again. _You be the bait, Merlin_. Always. Bloody Pendragons. "And?"

"Get a little better idea of just what he knows. I'm sure he's got some of our networks tapped—probably has some people right in our ranks." Pausing, she clenches her hand up into a fist. "My brother is good—there's no denying that. I want to slowly release your whereabouts to a few sources at a time. Flush out where he gets his information from."

Pretty good logic, he has to admit. Arthur could have a spy, probably someone entirely obvious and yet so trustworthy that they won't be considered. A good man, probably. Because good men? They follow Arthur. He draws people, and once that was a good thing. Now—_now _it is why good men like Lance were still convinced to follow him… at least for a while.

If Merlin had his way, he'd just put his head down right now and never raise it again. So many mistakes, and Arthur shouldn't be like this. But he is. He _is__. _And now that's got to be stopped. No point in running now.

"Yeah," he tells Morgana, and if he kneads at his forehead with his palm, what of it? Who wouldn't have a headache at this point? "Yeah, I'll do it."

* * *

[October 3rd, 2005]

When Arthur was young, he thought his father was larger than life. It'd still be easy to think that, actually, watching him give a speech in Parliament. There's just something about Uther Pendragon that draws the eye: agree or disagree, every gaze in the House is on him, and he's making his case like it's not even a question at all.

"Power of this sort cannot go unchecked! Magic may not be inherently evil, but it is a weapon—currently one that we have no way of suppressing if the need arises. Statistics show that the rate of crimes involving magic has gone up in recent years."

Yeah, like Arthur hasn't heard that before. Every day at dinner… which is really about the only time he sees his father. A normal conversation for that short time? Heh, no. They can't ever just talk about the potatoes—_This is a wonderful meal, isn't it?—_or Arthur's day at uni—_And how were your classes?_—because God forbid that they would go a day without having it reiterated just how dangerous magic is becoming.

"Magic needs to be monitored! We need to possess a way of containing it and tracking it should it be used improperly."

This'll be a bill passed. Even sitting back and watching, Arthur can see that. Kings don't address Parliament like this, Uther was told. The monarchy is a figurehead only. Yes, well, not when Uther Pendragon becomes king. If he wants, he'll damn well give his speech to Parliament. It's even backed by the Prime Minister—and it's not like it's a secret that Uther voted for the current Minister's party. No one has come right out and said it, of course, but it's not all that hard to tell. Kind of like it's not all that hard to tell this bill will pass. Sure, there are minority parties in opposition, and this won't be a landslide vote, but there's not much doubt that this is going to end in Uther's favor.

"I'm well-aware of the arguments," Uther continues, plowing right on. "Implanting a chip with the capability to suppress magic is a violation of rights. It's invasive. It's discriminatory. And I would answer by saying it is only any of those things if the magic user proves to be incapable of using their talents properly. If they are responsible, law-abiding citizens, the chip need never be activated. It will in no way interfere with their lives."

That's enough for one day. Arthur _could _stay and listen to the rest of his father's speech, but it's a little like watching re-runs: he already knows the ending. Might as well go do something else. Maybe see if any of his buddies are up for a game of footie. Holidays are nice like that, and pretty soon he'll be right back studying. As it is, he's only here because this is supposedly monumental—an age-changing speech. Maybe it is. Really, though, doesn't he hear his father talk enough as it is?

Shrugging off the offended looks of those he disturbs when he brushes past them toward the exit, Prince Arthur Pendragon makes his way out of the building.

* * *

[December 12th, 2013]

Merlin comes back around slowly. There's no difficulty in recognizing when it starts to happen, even if the process is slow—mere inches, really. He shifts more, eyes moving under his lids, violent enough that the motion seems to ripple down his eyelashes. Even his fingers twitch, just barely, but enough that it's visible—hinting that he's very physically trying to claw his way back into reality.

Finally, his eyes flicker open, and all Arthur can find it in himself to do is just sigh a little at the sight. This won't be pretty. It has to happen, though. There's no recourse for it.

"The doctor says you're malnourished."

Merlin takes one deep breath, his chest rising and falling in a heavy sigh. "That's what happens when you live off canned vegetables—if you're lucky to get even that—for a year."

Arthur leans forward in his chair. "No one made you live on the streets, Merlin."

"I'm rather certain _you_ did, _Arthur_."

More than likely he wants to say something more, but the urge falls to what is probably necessity: looking at his surroundings seems to take precedent. Whatever the reason, his lips thin, tightly closed, while his eyes open just a bit wider, tracking from side to side even as his head remains completely still on the pillow.

"Nice place," is all he says.

Yes, it is. It's not quite Buckingham Palace, but that didn't exactly seem the appropriate venue for a meeting like this. His own private building, smack in the middle of London—it felt more suited to what he needs. Less like a matter of state; more personal.

"It's a bit different from what I was always used to," Arthur answers. The chair is just a little too soft, and so he shifts, grinning when Merlin finally turns his head toward him.

Some days he finds he misses the castle. The hard lines of modern architecture can be so abrupt, and occasionally he can't suppress the longing for the stone, the rich tapestries where modern art now hangs, the roar of a fireplace that's been sacrificed for a heating system—the light of candles that has been snuffed out in the face of electricity. This new lighting—no matter what, it seems harsh. Candlelight was so much softer.

Still, this is nice enough: rich crème walls, accented with blue, comfortable furniture, an expansive rug under the bed, leaving just enough room for the hardwood to make a striking appearance closer toward the wall where he won't have to feel its cold on his feet in the morning. Glass has come a long away, too—he certainly won't complain about the set of large windows looking out over the city. That, at least, gives him softer light, especially in the morning when it creeps into the room, slowly at first, like it's not quite sure it's welcome, and then surging forward once assured.

Maybe he'll let Merlin have this room. The place has enough bedrooms, anyway. This is his favorite, yes—the most welcoming—but Merlin probably needs that right now more than he does.

"I don't much fancy the IV."

When had he turned away to look toward the window? Obviously, Merlin noticed, because when Arthur glances back, Merlin is staring at him through half-lidded eyes, waiting for… something. Whatever it is, he doesn't seem to find it, and how annoying and _just like Merlin _it is to look away before Arthur can get a decent read on exactly what Merlin is searching for.

Fine then. Easier just to reach out and finger the tubing, ignoring the irritation directed at him. "You need it."

"Why? Because I might die?"

All Arthur can manage to do is snort. "You that anxious to head back to Avalon?"

"Dunno. Don't remember it. Suppose I won't until I get back."

"Mmm." He drops the tubing of the IV, though he doesn't lean back, instead preferring to prop his face in one hand and wait for Merlin to make the next move. Some people play chess; he and Merlin play Life… without the brightly colored cards declaring someone found the cure for the common cold. Though, who knows—maybe they'll get to that eventually. It's not like they don't have the time.

"Where is it?"

No need to ask what he means. "As if I'd tell you. And don't try to magically detect it. You do that, it'll immediately shut your magic down until you stop trying."

Scowling, Merlin flops his head back down hard into the pillow, despite the fact that he'd never really picked it up to begin with. "You put a magic suppressor in me, Arthur."

No doubt those words are meant as an accusation. They do pretty well as one, too: that burning unease in his gut feels a lot like guilt. Really, though, Merlin has to know, has to understand why he did this. It's not out of spite—not out of any desire to hurt Merlin, and doesn't he _know _that?

"Yeah," he murmurs, staring down at his hands. "I suppose I did. What do you want? An apology? I won't give you one."

A hint of breath slips past Merlin's lips, more like a soft snort than anything, and then he just tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. "Surprise, surprise."

Yeah? Maybe that isn't a surprise to Merlin, but watching him suddenly roll over and drag himself out of bed isn't exactly planned. _That _is a surprise. It's a jumpstart to Arthur's limbs, and before Merlin even makes it off the bed, Arthur has his hands on Merlin's shoulders, trying to push him back down—and if he _really _tries, it's not as though there's any doubt he'll succeed. Merlin just needs to sit back down. That's all.

But no—it doesn't happen. All he gets is a blank, hard stare. Merlin hardly even blinks, to the point where he seems unnatural, almost frozen in time. "I think you're a little bit insane, Arthur," he says finally.

And then he pulls back and throws a punch.

Damn it all to hell—that _hurts_. Element of surprise or some nonsense. Whatever. Something. Damn it _all_. Fractured pain explodes outward, straight up his eye and into the back of his skull. Achy sharp, stomach turning _pain,_ and just twist, throw a punch back, only he never really does, just closes his hands around Merlin's arm and, and—

Merlin looks _pleased_.

"Go on then," he urges, snarling, or smiling or—or _something_…

No. Not—_no_. Pull back, don't let go, but don't leave bruises. Merlin just doesn't understand, and even if he never does, he's still _Merlin_, and that _matters_. "I did what I had to, Merlin. And now I need your help." Breathe in, breathe out. And Merlin just keeps staring at him, their faces inches apart, so together. Two sides of a coin, only now the coin has melted until it's hard to tell who is on what side.

"Well," Merlin breathes out, nostrils flaring slightly, "then you can just go to Hell, because I won't give it."

One small shove has Merlin back down. Absently, Arthur notices that the IV has slipped out. Big surprise. More than likely that happened when Merlin hit him. "War hasn't changed all that much, Merlin. The longer it drags on, the more people die. And don't mistake me in this—I _will _create unity, with or without your help. But more people will die without your help. Do you want that?" Oh, no, Merlin is _not _going to look away, and, yes, it does mean reaching out and jerking his face back up with somewhat rough hands, but it's worth it. This has to happen. "Do you?"

"I want you to _stop_."

"Oh? So everything Nimueh has done? You wanted me to leave that mess for someone else to clean up?"

He's going to look uncertain now? Excellent timing—just fabulous. Serve him right to have that paleness smacked off his face, right along with that trembling mouth. Merlin doesn't get to be unsure _now_. "No? You didn't? So it was all right when the government was in disarray? But not now? What's your standard, Merlin?"

Merlin comes alive a little at that, regaining a bit of that righteous anger. It is, at least, something of a relief to see color heat the pale of his cheeks. "You've become a _tyrant_, Arthur. You took over. Why won't you give back over power? And taking the magic—"

"Is necessary."

"No—"

In a flurry of movement, Merlin makes to rise from the bed again, but Arthur has his hands out, catching him before he can. "Don't be stupid, Merlin: lie back down. You need the rest. You're not leaving, and we'll talk later."

A few quick steps have him across the room, and, ignoring Merlin's gaping face and garbled protests, he quickly punches in the code to open the door and then slips through before Merlin can really make any motion to move out of the bed. Who knows, maybe after Arthur leaves, he might even sleep. If not, it's not like the surveillance system Arthur has hooked up in the room won't let him know, and drugging Merlin again isn't entirely out of the question. He won't make himself sick—won't be allowed to, not here—not when it can be prevented.

"Arthur-!" he hears, just a word hanging in the wind from the door when he pushes it shut.

The lock clicks. Engaged. That'll do for now.

* * *

[August 25th, 2007]

She's drunk. She's honest to God drunk, no denying it. She's tried, but about the time—oh, there goes her shoe, off into the corner—she'd tripped over nothing… drunk. Yes.

"You're—you're—" Arthur mumbles, getting all squinty-eyed and, uh, confused, and she's giggling, laughing, letting him push her back onto a bed. Getting a closer look is all—still all squinty. Heh, a closer look. Yeah. That's what he's doing. "You're…" He stops, and he looks _funny _with his mouth pouty like that. "Why haven't we done this before?"

"Didn't know each other," she points out, clearly very helpfully, and why not help a little more and get that shirt off him?

"We _should _have," he mutters. Why won't he _move_? Let her get that shirt off—there he goes. Better. It's… somewhere off. In the corner. Maybe. Or the bed. Or the… is it on the fan?

But, yeah—_this_. Earlier. They really should have. He's a very, very good kisser.

And, no, why is he—_what _is he doing? "Morgana." He stopped kissing her just to say her name? Well, all right, names are good, and hers is rather lovely, but honestly— "You just—you seem familiar."

That's nice. His skin is smooth, but there's stubble there on his chin. Fingers feel odd on it. Sort of like if she ran them over sandpaper, maybe? She never has. Never… his hair is soft, though. Very soft. And he's saying _familiar _over again, not now, though, because he's kissing her again, and, yes, that's very nice, yes…


	5. Chapter 5

[November 10th, 2013]

If there was every any hope of keeping his oath of loyalty to Arthur, that's pretty well shattered. And that means the oath that _mattered_. The official one that he swore when he took his office of Court Sorcerer—it meant very little. Certainly it was binding, but when he'd knelt before Arthur, they'd both known it was show only. Oaths like the kind they had were deeper—the sort that had been proven in deed before the words had even been considered or asked for… and before the words in ceremony, there had been words in private, promises and assurances in the face of difficulty. A willingness to die for somebody is a pledge all its own.

No, it was long before any oath he took in front of the court that Merlin had given Arthur his pledge in every way that counted.

And that, Merlin thinks, digging his fingers in against his temples and trying to knead away the growing headache, is what he can't stop from eating at his mind.

A formal oath is the letter of the law, and it can be manipulated. Who's to say that oaths are valid after death and rebirth? What proves that they don't have some kind of expiration date, same as the milk in the fridge? He can easily work his way out of what he said in the middle of the court.

But what he said to Arthur in private? What he promised as a friend and not as a subject? How can that be broken?

Looking at the ground under him, Merlin tries not to breathe—tries to keep the dust out of his lungs. Ironic, since this is just a small alleyway without enough foot traffic to stir up any. Better, though, to blame the elements than to think that maybe it's just conscience squeezing his lungs.

_You're breaking your promise_.

"Ready?" Morgana's voice asks into his ear.

His fingers slide, just once, over the bud in his ear. "Yeah."

_No_. He's not ready. He'll never be, because he can't reconcile any of this: Arthur is no longer the man he followed in Camelot, but he's not entirely someone different either. Memories, thoughts—it's all there, and does Arthur in this world still own that promise Merlin made back in Camelot? Was it conditional? Dependent on Arthur's good character?

Another deep breath. That was never part of the promise. But how can it not be?

"The second you walk into its line of vision, the camera will catch your face," Morgana's voice tells him. "Make sure you look full on."

Make sure you look full on without making it obvious that you want to be caught. Make sure you're convincing. That's what she really wants, even if she doesn't know it. She wouldn't know how to begin knowing it. Arthur would, of course, know. If it's too easy, it's not that he won't take advantage anyway, but he'll certainly see it for what it is.

Merlin slides into the line of view, looks toward the camera, then quickly past it, never stopping on its actual location.

_Hello, Arthur, and, no, I am bloody well not pleased with how things are going. _

Pity he won't get to say any of it. Maybe he won't get to say anything if Arthur doesn't show up soon.

_Who's the one who's always late, Arthur?_

Merlin scrapes his foot through the dirt again, listening—waiting for anything. Every muscle in his body is sensitized; he could swear he's aware of them all. Any sign, any sound and he's tensing, muscles twitching under the skin, held in check to abort actual substantial movement.

This is the part that's hard to play. In theory it's not so difficult—just let himself be seen and then wait. He's just waiting for a drop from a member of another cell of the resistance. That's it… if the story that was relayed to Arthur were true. Just waiting for a drop in an innocuous back ally, where the lack of traffic should mean there aren't supposed to be any cameras. Logical… or it would be if Arthur hadn't set up cameras here on the word of his informant, whoever it is that Morgana picked. He's expecting something to happen—of course he'd be watching. If this wasn't all a lie.

At least they've gotten to choose the turf this time.

_They_. Merlin's gut spasms with guilt. _They. _Like he's a member already. Fighting against Arthur. It's an effort to swallow down the bitter laugh that tries to push itself up his throat. He's one of _them_, against Arthur.

"We already know from Lance that the information got back to Arthur," he'd told Morgana when she suggested this. "We don't need to actually show up. We already know that we can successfully plant information in Arthur's system."

And she'd just smiled, going that step further, just like always. Call it whatever, but he'd label it tactical genius. She's enough like Arthur in that. Not as good as her brother, but, then, back in Camelot maybe he'd always been a bit biased. He'd _wanted _Arthur to be better.

"If you don't show up, he'll either guess at what we did or, at the very least, begin to doubt the informant."

Yeah, so instead he's stuck here waiting in a back ally until the shooting starts. Trying not to fidget more than necessary, he glances toward the window across from him. It's not all that large, and it's got bars on it—big surprise there, given the state of the city—and when people actually do start firing, he's going to be sincerely thankful that those bars aren't bolted down. First sign of a problem, pull them out, break the window, and _go_. It's a good plan—Morgana's plan—and that window _is _big enough to get through. He checked. And he's done worse before.

"Turn around and put your hands against the wall."

Show time. Hell, though, his palms are sweating. This isn't easy. So simple in theory, but now that there's a man in the entrance to the alleyway, it gets real. And, yes, a quick look shows the other end is blocked too.

There's no mistaking that they're Arthur's men. They've got the insignia on their chests—that red dragon, more stylized to modernity than it used to be—right under the pocket that for all Merlin knows could actually be used to hold pens. At this point, though, that'd be rather laughable, and the dragon certainly doesn't indicate that these guys are paper pushers.

Neither do the guns.

"Now," the man snaps at him, gun in hand.

Deep breath. Turn. One foot in front of the other, hands toward the wall. Slowly now, slowly…

Impressive how the men's shoes manage to be so _very _loud—obnoxiously so—on the pavement as they close in. Did Arthur teach them that? Make an entrance when you can, but slip to invisible when the situation calls for it. He was always good at that.

A quick flick of his eyes toward the left and then back to the right tells him about all he wants to know. Leon. Owain. Well, hell. He'd been pretty sure it'd be someone he knows, but seeing Leon—it's kind of like being kicked in the gut, and definitely with a steel-toed boot. He probably should have guessed, though—Leon was always a good man, but more than that, he was loyal to the crown. He did some things on Uther's command—well, Merlin had never understood. And he'd never asked how Leon could follow orders like those and live with himself.

He certainly won't ask now.

"Put them on the wall!" Leon yells at him, not all that unkindly, oddly enough. Just doing his job. Yeah, thanks Leon. If they'd been some kind of warning that this was how everything would turn out, Leon might have gotten charred rabbit more often on hunting trips, at least when Merlin was cooking.

"I'm going," Merlin hears himself saying. The brick is rough under his hands. The window is less than a foot away. Slowly, slowly… "Just hold on, all right?"

They don't, of course. Pity, that, because that means they're getting closer, and that is just not helpful at all. If he's going to do this, he's got to—yeah, now.

Jerking violently to the side and yanking the bars away is simpler than he'd thought it would be. Shouldn't it be harder than this? But, no, cold metal sinks a chill up into his fingers, and it stays there. Just a little push with magic has the bars flying toward Owain's head. He ducks it—good, didn't really want to hit him—but it sends him off balance, hitting his shoulder against the wall as he dodges.

No time to break the window with anything but his hand. He was supposed to—but not—that was _stupid_. The bars. He was supposed to have been done it with the bars. Not now, though. Better just to pull his jacket up over his hand, lean back, and—

Oh. _Oh_. That _hurts._

Magic. He could have done it with magic if this were anyone else. If it weren't so bloody dangerous to show Leon and Owain—they might not know, and it'll be so much easier to fight them if they think he's normal. So, clear the glass with his hand—blood, warm and thick—and then dive through the window before they can—

A hand scrapes at his jacket, jostling him into the side of the window. He can feel himself grimace at the jarring pain—that was glass he just hit, wasn't it?—and this is _wrong_. There was supposed to be cover fire that would let him get away—keep Leon and Owain back. Where is it? Why didn't it happen?

That'll wait, though. It'll have to, because the ground is coming up to meet him—that'll leave a mark. Every swear word he ever learned is spilling out of his mouth—his mom wouldn't approve—but his shoulder feels like it's about three inches away from where it's actually supposed to be—that is, in its socket—and so he'll swear if he wants.

Keeping going. Up, up, up—no time. There are bars—yes, they're still there, right where Morgana said. He just has to _shove_. There. He and Morgana went over this. There they go, snug in the window, welded shut with the kind of magic he learned to do without a spell, just as Leon pulls up short outside, cursing. His gun—any second now he'll level that, but Merlin slams the window—just a broken frame now, but it'll help hold the bars in place—down anyway, and somehow… somehow Leon never takes aim.

And then Merlin turns to run.

He never makes it more than a few steps.

"You're bleeding."

Right. They… certainly didn't have a contingency plan for _this_.

Arthur looks good. Where there used to be chainmail and armor, there is now a Pendragon red button down shirt, tucked efficiently into a pair of black slacks. There's still a belt, yes, but now it holds a gun in its holster—no sword in a sheath. He looks smart. Modern. He's even got the sleeves of the shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing a length of arm before it disappears off into the pockets where he's casually stuffed his hands. No more boots, either—just well made black shoes that probably cost more than Merlin has ever seen in British pounds. All of it, though—it seems so ridiculous. This isn't Arthur in battle. Arthur in battle was sweaty, sucking in breath like each inhale counted—and he certainly never looked like he'd just stepped out of a meeting. Has warfare really changed this much?

"You," Merlin breaths out slowly, just _knowing _how stupid he sounds even as his mouth keeps right on going, "aren't supposed to be here."

Stupid or not, his comments earn him an amused smile. Even now, it lights Arthur's face, lacing every line with what is undeniably affection. "Show of good faith," he says, still smiling as he takes his hands out of his pockets. "I'll tell you how I knew you'd be here. And you're dripping on the floor."

Right, blood. Yeah, there's a bit trickling off his hand—okay, more than a bit—but the wound is superficial. He'll live. And anyway, he's more interested in whatever show of faith Arthur wants to make: offers like that are not to be turned down. Honestly, though—he doesn't want to know. This isn't Arthur. But it is. And either of those options is terrifying.

Arthur's smile tightens a bit when Merlin shifts forward, scraping his feet along the floor. There's no subtlety in how he's eyeing the door, but it's not like Arthur didn't know he intended to make for it anyway.

Uh… or maybe he didn't. At least, he might have hoped otherwise. Whatever he thought, his forehead wrinkles as his eyes track Merlin, and he ducks his head down, staring up at Merlin from under his bangs. Most importantly, his hand goes to his gun, fingers just barely skimming over it—and he watches, eyes almost daring Merlin to make another move.

It would be stupid to. The room isn't all that big—not that much room to run. Why would there be? It's just a sitting room, complete with modern furniture. It's even clean. If anyone shoots, they're going to stain the light gray rug. Funny, that, and yet Merlin realizes he isn't laughing. His lungs are burning, though. Does that count?

When he doesn't answer, Arthur just sighs, apparently truly disappointed if the way his shoulders slump the barest hint of an inch is anything to go by. The moment doesn't last, though, and seconds later, he's gesturing to something behind Merlin—oh.

Leon. Owain.

Pretty rotten self-preservation techniques. This whole time he's had his back turned on two men with guns. Well done. Right. But, honestly, what and _how_—and—and no one can expect this from him. He'd never wanted to be a warrior. None of this—it's not _him_.

_Wrong_, his mind screams. _You fought in Camelot. You know better. _And that—it's true. But still, he only knows better out of necessity—not that acknowledging that helps, because, however he learned, he _does_ still know to protect his back, and all that really leaves is one option for why he'd turn away. And that reason? It is, frankly, no better than just invoking sheer stupidity.

"You noticed it too, hmm?" Arthur asks.

Merlin jerks back to look at him, registering just before he does that Leon and Owain are moving away from the window. They'll still be there in the alley, no doubt. So, no way out through the window. That leaves the door. The one behind Arthur.

"Noticed what?" he breathes. Should he try for the door?

The effort Arthur is making not to smile is truly admirable. "Why you left your back open to both of them."

"A mistake."

That gains him a nod of acknowledgement. "Yes. But you wouldn't have made it if I were anyone else."

Isn't that just _perfect_. Even better that this is Arthur, who can so easily guess the alternative to stupidity. Opening his mouth to refute that would be good, but somehow, even once he does, _pointless _just seems ready to slip out and turn on him. It might just slap him in the face. At this point, he wouldn't blame it—he might do it to himself, if it wouldn't give Arthur satisfaction.

He closes his mouth again.

"Sloppy, Merlin," Arthur begins again, finally letting his fingers slide off his gun. They still hover near it, but the threat is less imminent. "I'm flattered that you trusted I wouldn't have them shoot you, but, really, I taught you better."

Yes, and may Arthur rot in his self-satisfaction. Overconfident tosser… who just happens to be right.

"Arthur." His mouth is sodry.

Arthur only nods. "So, show of good faith?"

"Fine. How'd you do it?"

"Bugged one of Morgana's men."

So, Morgana may have planted information, but Arthur knew the escape root because he had a bug. Is it someone on the team that was supposed to lay down cover fire? They knew about this. But… it's hard to tell. Impossible, really.

Slowly, Merlin takes a step toward the door. Arthur's fingers twitch toward his gun again. "Morgana sweeps for bugs."

"You think you're the only sorcerer in existence, Merlin?"

"I think you'd have a very difficult time getting one to work for you these days, Arthur."

Apparently that's amusing, though _why _is lost on everyone who's not Arthur. At least _Arthur_ finds it funny, though, throwing his head back and laughing like he's really, genuinely entertained. "You think so? Some fear their own powers, Merlin. You ought to know this. And some are staunch supporters of having a check on what they can do."

"They're wrong to help you."

A shrug. "By your standards. And your standards are wrong these days, I'm afraid."

A deep breath, and somehow the air tastes sour. Though, maybe that's just the taste in his mouth. "So, a magical trace?"

Arthur nods. "Yes."

Right then. That's about all he needs to know. It's certainly not _pleasant_, but there's nothing he can do now, and things are only going to get worse—for him—if he stays. "Get out of my way, Arthur."

Again, Arthur's fingers close firmly over the gun. It's useless, though, and Arthur has to know that. Stupid of him to think it will work, and yet he's drawing it, sliding it out of his holster… and tossing it down into a corner.

"I don't need it," he says with a shrug and a small smile. "I know what you can do."

"I'm leaving."

"You think so?"

Yes, he really does, and just to prove it, he stalks forward. Move. Just _move_. Not much of a surprise when Arthur doesn't, and Merlin is left toe to toe with him, waiting. One good shove and Arthur will be out of the way, but it's a matter of _doing _it. Because this is Arthur, and smug bastard that Arthur is, he knows what Merlin is thinking.

"Good to see you again, Merlin," Arthur murmurs sincerely. "I've missed you."

And Merlin can't even say he feels differently. "I—" What? There's nothing for this situation. It's too complicated in ways no one but the two of them understand, and there's no mercy for that. Mercy would be a way to break this situation—this sudden, gut-wrenching eye contact. It's been a long time since he's been this close to Arthur.

Unfortunately, mercy comes in strange forms, and strangest of all is a lunge, an attack—Arthur trying to stab him with… something. No answer is required, sure, but this—it's just as bad as having to answer Arthur. He's twisting back out of reach, but it's not enough, and a needle—it's a needle—jabs into the flesh of his leg. Probably not quite where Arthur wants it, but, whatever is in it, some of it had to get in his skin.

Slamming back into a table, Merlin tips sideways and just starts rolling. The needle—it's out of Arthur's grip, sticking into Merlin instead. Some of the liquid is still there. Good, because if he can get out of here, they can analyze it, see what they're dealing with. _If_ he gets out of here, anyway, because the syringe is partially depressed, and damn it all, that means whatever it was, part of it is in his bloodstream.

It's probably fast acting. God help him, hopefully it won't be quite as good with only a partial dose.

There's almost no time to think about what he's doing. Honestly, it's no more than pure instinct to bellow out the spell, send Arthur slamming back into the opposite wall. Arthur had his one chance, and he had to have known it. That was what the needle was: a gamble that he was quicker than Merlin, that he could drug him before Merlin started spell casting. He might have succeeded too, if he'd gotten the whole dose in. He probably would have, actually, because the room seems to be blurring, and just to see, Merlin tries to call his magic to his fingertips.

Briefly, there's a spark of energy in his fingers—the kind he got once when he accidentally touched an electrical fence, just to find out what would happen, even though his mother told him not to. But the magic—it's trapped, blocked somewhere up inside him. A little seems to be getting through, but if Arthur had gotten the whole dose in him, well, it doesn't take much to guess what would have happened.

Arthur, who is currently lying against the opposite wall, unconscious.

Merlin is by no means foolish enough to wait for him to wake up.

There will be a car at the back entrance to the house. The house will be surrounded, but there will be no soldiers inside. Nowhere within earshot of this conversation. Arthur wouldn't have wanted it, and as much as Arthur knowing him is a weakness, in this, Merlin does have an advantage: he knows Arthur just as well. And Arthur wouldn't have wanted to be overheard, not when it would mean some very awkward questions about why they seem to have known each other centuries ago.

It's not much, but at least he can call for help without tipping anyone off. "Morgana?" he says once he's got his fingers in place, pushing at the ear bud, adjusting it like she taught him.

She answers almost immediately: "I see it."

"Can you get me out?"

"Your magic?"

"I'm drugged."

A pause and then, "All right. Obviously, we were compromised." Yeah, no kidding. At least that explains why he never got any cover fire back in the alley. "I can get enough of an opening for you to run for a car, though. Go back out the way you came."

Good enough. It's tough getting the bars back off the window, but the trickle of magic he has left is enough—barely, but enough—and even though he grimaces, because he's already bleeding from the first time, he chucks himself back out through the window and into the alley.

And then fire opens.

Not on him. On Leon and Owain. "Left," Morgana shouts into his ear. Toward Owain. Good choice. He'd rather take on him than Leon.

Merlin runs. And Owain—he falls. It's got to be pretty damn unpleasant to be destined to always die in the line of service for Arthur. And even now, Merlin feels an ache spread up inside him at the sight of Owain lying on the pavement. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of this.

The car is there. It looks innocuous, but it's oddly parked, and Arthur's men are distracted enough by the shots—apparently Morgana managed to send in back up after they were originally compromised—that they don't take much note of it. Too bad for them.

The door opens for Merlin seconds before he reaches the vehicle.

Two steps more, and he's inside. Safe. It should feel like a victory.

But with the image of Arthur hanging in his mind, it really feels too much like a defeat.

* * *

[Camelot]

Morgana never spent much time in Arthur's chambers and, yet, now that she's gone, they feel vacant. It doesn't make sense, and there's really no reason that it should. It's not that she should be _here_—just that she shouldn't be gone entirely.

"She wanted to kill me, Merlin, when I would have died for her."

The slick sounds of metal ceases behind him, followed by a muted thump: probably Merlin placing the sword down on the table.

"That says something about _you_, I think," Merlin replies quietly after a few moments.

"Nothing good." What kind of man wants to know that he's blind? That's he's a fool? Or that he's enough of a coward that he'd prefer to keep leaning here against the window, looking out over a courtyard rather than turning to face his servant and receive an answer.

Terrible servant that he is (though possibly a very good friend) Merlin doesn't take the hint. Later Arthur might just thank him for it, but it's not like he's going to do it _now_. Right now it's just easier to sigh at how Merlin's footsteps give him away; if he were trying to sneak up on Arthur, he'd have failed almost before he even thought to try.

"Something _very _good, I think." Stopping beside Arthur, he leans into the wall, probably waiting for eye contact. He's not going to get it. He can stand there as long as he pleases.

"All it says is that I was _blind_."

Merlin shrugs. "Maybe. But I know you, and you're only blind if you have very good reason to be. Sometimes… sometimes I think you don't notice things if it would mean harming someone you care for."

"Oh, so now I'm _willingly_ blind?" That's unfair, of course. Merlin is only trying to help, and here he is snapping at him when he doesn't even have the decency to actually meet Merlin's eye while he's doing it.

"No. But I think once your loyalty is gained, it's kept. And you'll think the best of those people who have your loyalty. That means you might not see things about them that maybe you should."

Grimacing, he digs his fingers hard into the flesh of his palm, letting the pain wash over him, stinging and curling up into his arms. "Merlin—"

"And it _is _a good thing," Merlin tells him, obviously hearing the beginning of a reprimand and cutting it off. "Yes, it will be a disadvantage at times. But it's also why people follow you—why men are willing to die for you. You're _loyal _to them. And they'll give their lives for someone like that."

_Like you're willing to do _Arthur doesn't say. _And like Morgana wasn't._

He can't say it, but it's true, and the knowledge is almost a tangible hand, tipping his head back, opening his lungs to air. Breathe in, breathe out: the relief is sweet, and, leaning into it, he lets his head fall to the side. It takes him a moment to realize that he's meeting Merlin's eyes. And Merlin is smiling. Typical. Foolishly enough, though, he's smiling back, though it probably looks a little like a grimace. But it's a start, right? And it seems to make Merlin happy. There's life in those eyes, and caring to see that—it's what having a friend is, isn't it?

Not that he'll ever tell Merlin that. God forbid.

"She's my sister." Merlin very wisely doesn't comment on how his voice cracks over the last word.

"Maybe. But I don't think she is in the ways that count. Blood will only take you so far."

"And what about you, Merlin? What are you?"

Merlin lies and lies and lies—about where he's going, where's he's been when he misses work—but whatever he's about to say—it'll be true. No good man can look someone so clearly in the eye and lie.

That Merlin is anything but a good man was never a consideration.

"I'm loyal to you, Arthur. And that won't ever change. You have my word on that."


	6. Chapter 6

[August 26th, 2007]

Who left the curtains open? Whoever it is, Arthur is going to find them, pummel them, and—and—stab them with whatever is driving through _his _skull at the moment. Yes, he'll do that… just as soon as he can open his eyes without jabbing that thing in his skull deeper into his own brain. Good God, just how much did he have to drink last night?

And who…?

_She's my sister_.

Morgana.

For a moment he doesn't move, hardly even breathes. Over him the ceiling is white, and he fixes his eyes on the blank expanse of it, watching the sun play patterns on the plaster. Outside he can hear the buzz of cars in the streets, the muffled honking of horns. It's what it always is—people just beginning a new day. Nothing is out of the ordinary.

But everything has gone to Hell anyway.

A head of dark hair on the pillow next to him, cream-colored skin, and an unnerving gaze hidden by closed eyelids and sooty lashes. He knows what he'll find if he turns over. And words, hatred, betrayal—will he find those too?

_Blood will only take you so far._

His sister. He slept with his sister. Morgana.

But he didn't know—he never did—his father never mentioned….

Moaning—and then choking it down, because he is so entirely not ready to have her actually open her eyes and look at him—he rolls over, ignoring the pounding in his head. That could be a hangover, but as colors and scenes burst behind his eyes, flooding into his mind, he's more inclined to think it's memory.

And it _hurts_.

It's okay. It's all right. Just breathe. It's hard, though, chest constricted, probably about like asthma. But it's not that—it's just the _memories_. There are soft sheets—best that money can buy—right under his hands, and the mattress is his own, but it's not grounding when there are pictures running through his head, a reel of thought playing out onto the cinema screen—his screen, his mind—while he observes it all, conscious of it to the point where it's too real.

_You have no right to the throne!_

_No, but _I_ do. I am your daughter, after all._

Morgana.

She's there next to him, still asleep, blissfully unaware. One hand to his forehead, he chokes down his breath and watches her inhale and exhale softly in a sleepy rhythm. She's turned away from him, and like this he can see the rolling curve of her hip, merging down into the gentle cradle of her waist in soft, flowing lines. A woman's body is beautiful, and Morgana—she's something else entirely, almost not quite human, and so spectacularly flawed. But not in this. Not in the physical. She's his sister, but still, _still_, just for a moment, he wants to reach out and touch, stroke the pads of his fingers over her skin, draw patterns there in the sunlight, leaving them to sink in, down onto the perfect basket of her ribs.

Morgana. His sister. And one of the worst betrayals he's ever known.

Drawing back, he slips against the sheets, turning away before he can think more. His sister, and hasn't he already ruined this situation to its maximum degree? He slept with his sister. He did. And he won't compound it now by—by… wanting… things.

_Gwen_.

Gasping, he pitches forward. Head to hand—somehow, since he hadn't actually planned to do that, but it's good, because he's dizzy. Gwen. His—his wife. And where is she? She'll be here, his Gwen, who betrayed him, not as badly as Morgana, because Gwen never stopped loving him—he's sure of it—but still enough to keep him pacing the floors at night and wondering just how much more of man Lancelot was that he could satisfy her when he—the king of Camelot—could not.

_Do you remember the first time I kissed you? That's the memory I want to take with me._

Take with him through the centuries, it seems. The memories _are_ him—he _is _the memories, and if he'd known, if he had just _known—_

_It is your fate to be the greatest king that Camelot has ever known._

Behind him, Morgana stirs. No. He can't—he can't face her. It's too much; he stumbles out of bed like he's still drunk—oh, and doesn't he wish that he were?—heading for the door, barely managing to snag some sort of clothing on the way. Thank God his fingers find the doorknob, scrabbling over the metal until he bears down and clenches his hand around it, forcing it open. Because that's what he does, isn't it? He conquers. Makes things bend to his will. A door. A kingdom. Time itself, apparently.

"Who am I?" spills from his lips as he shuts the door, tucking Morgana away for a few minutes more.

_You're a prat._

Yes. Hell, yes. Merlin. Yes. Merlin would answer like that. How had he ever forgotten Merlin? If anyone else remembers this, it _will _be Merlin. The idea alone eases the ache, and he finds that even the plaster of the wall feels less chilly on his bare skin when he leans into it, relaxing, his head falling back to further open his throat for the gulps of air he drags in.

In, out, in, out. It feels normal. Stunningly so. Here he is, standing in the hallway of his home, bare feet on the carpet, old pants from Uni riding low on his hips. If he goes to the cupboard, there will be cereal, so long as his maid has remembered to do the shopping (and she better have, considering what she gets paid), and the water in the tap will be warm, there will be some trashy program on the telly, and if he opens the newspaper he just might see his father.

This is his life. He hasn't lost that. But he… is something else…

He is someone that he no longer is but can't ever really stop being. It's all a loop. King Arthur. Arthur Pendragon. Prince Arthur of England. Just Arthur. Years don't change that, and the memories only smooth at the edges until the loop—maybe an ellipse, maybe an oval, whatever—is fashioned into a perfectly formed circle.

But Merlin will know. Merlin will help. He always does.

Destiny, right? It's always destiny. That hasn't changed. But what is that here? His circumstances aren't so different. He's the Prince in this age too. Still royalty. But what does that even _mean _now?

Pushing off from the wall, Arthur drags himself forward down the hallway. The walls are spinning, far too much like that one time he went to a carnival and managed to wander into a funhouse where the floors shifted. Walking… is not a good idea.

Tea, though. Tea is a very good idea. Caffeine. Actually, alcohol might be the best idea, but it's not even ten in the morning yet, and getting a pint out of the fridge just seems like an admission of weakness. Has he really deteriorated so far that he needs liquid courage just to face… face what? A whole life come back to haunt him.

The alcohol looks pretty damn good, actually.

At some point, though, he's already gotten the tea bags out… and there's water boiling—when did he do that? And so he might as well just go ahead with his first plan. He can always spike the tea. Or jump out the window. The second is looking more and more appealing with each passing second.

Right, okay, no. Deep breath. Deep. Breath.

Somehow, that actually works. The room stops spinning quite so fast, and he's left standing at the counter, tea bag in hand, staring down at the dark marble countertop. The water in the kettle is beginning to boil in the background, bubbling comfortingly—almost smoothing over his nerves, or at least scalding them until he can't feel them anymore anyway. Yes, all right. This will be fine.

Sure. He slept with his sister, he thinks blankly, tracing an imaginary pattern onto the counter with his fingertip. And he's actually Arthur Pendragon of Camelot. No problem. He can handle both those things. The first—it just won't happen again. He'll… he'll have to get the truth out of his father, obviously, then find some way to get him to admit it to Morgana. Obviously, it'll be worse than just ignoring that period in Camelot where they both fancied each other a little more than siblings ought to have, because that—it had only been staring and eye contact that had lasted a bit too long. And bickering. Always with the bickering. But they'd gotten over that. They'll get over this too. Somehow.

They'll get over him banging his own sister. Yeah.

And the whole legendary king thing. Well, who wouldn't want to find that out about themselves? Hey, you're the fictional King Arthur! Downright exciting, yeah? Oh… yeah.

At some point, Arthur's head has dropped back down to the counter. God only knows when he did that, but as best as Arthur can guess, his body is attempting to convey something through its movements that his mind is trying to deny. Funny how the poses he keeps ending up in seem a lot like despair.

To his left, the tea seems to be done, and so he reaches out with slightly shaking hands, fumbling for a mug before sloppily pouring some of the boiling water into it. A bit of it splashes, and he jumps back, burned; a few quick jerks of his hand are sufficient to shake out the pain. That's nothing compared to the utter chaos he's about to face.

But, no, it doesn't have to be like that. He'll make tea for Morgana, and then he'll see her out. Or—Or maybe he'll just leave and wait for her to make her own way out. And then he'll confront his father… somehow.

And Merlin.

He's got to find Merlin.

But, he thinks gloomily, reaching for the sugar, who is Merlin now? And, more importantly, does Merlin even _remember_?

* * *

[Camlann]

"I'll give my life for his!"

Arthur. _Arthur_. It wasn't supposed to end so terribly. Arthur. His blood. There is so much blood on the ground. If a payment is what it'll take to sew this all back together, it's a small thing to ask.

"You know I'll never die, and that'll do it. If I give it for him!" How raw his throat is, aching with every word, though never with the word he just won't say. Dead. One word. Just one harsh syllable, short and sharp, the drive of a nail into a coffin. And he won't say it. If he does, raw will be the least of his worries—that one word would be a barb, raking up his throat on the way to his mouth. If he has to say those words, it'll be the last thing he does.

"It's my destiny, Morgana!" he snarls.

She's not unfeeling, but she might as well be for all the concern she shows. She's sitting in a pool of blood, letting it soak through her black dress—better to hide the stains, yeah?—just holding her brother like he's already gone. He's not. He's_ not_.

"And if Arthur is gone, you have nothing left to do. Is that it, Merlin?"

Furious, he sinks his fingers into the ground. Control his breathing. He's got to. Loosing it now won't help.

"Is it, Merlin?" she asks again.

Maybe it was once. It might still be, at least partly. But seeing Arthur sprawled haphazardly, half on the ground, half on Morgana's lap, his eyes closed, face bloodless and white as the corpses that Merlin has seen too many of over the years—it's not about destiny. It's not even about being suddenly adrift in an immortal life that was, until this point, anchored in purpose by Arthur. It can't be any of that in the face of the pain splitting up Merlin's chest—the kind of pain that steals his thoughts and runs with them, circling around and diving forward, narrowing in on the smear of blood on Arthur's cheek, on how his chest has ceased to move. Dead. Maybe those things matter. But now—right now—nothing matters so much as—

"You love him, don't you?" Morgana asks slowly. Her eyes were never so dark as now, in how he frantically searches—something, there has to be _something _there like compassion. "His destiny is done, Merlin. Fulfilled." Her stare sweeps over Arthur's body, and after a moment's hesitation, her fingers follow, brushing gently down to Arthur's palm. She begins to trace circles there, soothing a dead man. "But that doesn't matter to you, does it?" Jerking her gaze back up to Merlin—and, achingly, her eyes are soft. "You don't want to save him because he could still do great things—you want to save him because he's your dearest friend and you love him."

Yes, fine, whatever. If it'll wake Arthur, he'll admit it. He'll admit anything, do anything, but it just can't end like this… "Damn you, HELP HIM, Morgana!" he finally just screams, lunging for Arthur's body.

Panic has made him slow, or maybe just clumsy—Morgana catches his chin in her hand, so oddly gentle that it shocks him into stillness. Most of him, at least. Not his hand, because that just keeps going until it collides with Arthur's face, hovering there, and then tentatively drifting over the skin. Cold, it can't be cold, not like it _is_—fingers catching in the strands of hair on his forehead, even if Merlin isn't looking. Morgana—he can't look away from her. "You'll trade," she says, "But you need another sorcerer to mediate the transaction." The way her mouth trembles, forming words that never come to fruition—the sense of grief she shouldn't feel but that reads clear in every line of her body—he feels with her, because Arthur is _so cold_.

"Please," he chokes out.

"It will cost—"

"Damn it all, Morgana, you know I'll pay it, whatever it is. Now do it!"

And she does. She honest to God does, without so much as another glance at him. If she disagrees or has an idea of what the price will be—and, honestly, he probably would too if he just took some time to think it out, if he had that time—she doesn't show it. There are no words of caution, no ominous prophecies or spat syllables dripping with hatred. Rather, nothing but a quick inhale, enough to shift Arthur's body with it, pushing his face just that bit more up into Merlin's hand.

And then Morgana begins chanting.

* * *

[December 13th, 2013]

"ARTHUR!"

Already the bed is a mess of terribly tangled sheets, knotted around Merlin until every kick and thrash just binds him more tightly. They're good sheets—expensive ones. Better than anything Merlin would have had before, and here he is fighting them like he fights everything else. Figures. He's not the kind of prisoner that Arthur would ever tie down, but Merlin, stubborn as he is, apparently feels the need to make it seem that way. Melodramatic to the last.

And what Arthur would give for that to be _all _it is.

"Hush, damn you," he tries to say as he approaches Merlin with his hands out in front of him. Theoretically, that ought to help him catch the flailing limbs, but a fat lot of good that theory is doing him when Merlin just keeps crying out, thrashing like his life depends on it.

If Arthur had gotten his way, it wouldn't have been like this: Merlin's been alone for far too long.

"Whoever's been looking after you has done a piss poor job," he mutters, finally just giving up and grabbing the nearest limb. A wrist, as chance would have it. Strictly speaking Merlin probably won't thank him for the yank he bestows upon it, but it does the job: jerking Merlin forward in a slide of comforter and sheet, closer over to Arthur, and years ago this would have been absolutely humiliating, but, honestly, there's only so much you can go through with someone—by now, whatever embarrassing situation he gets into with Merlin, there's a pretty good chance that they've faced something worse. Waking Merlin up from a nightmare certainly ranks below that incident with the dress and the—right. Well, it just ranks below that.

And honestly, Merlin might have already lived a life, but he was never made to be self-sufficient, no matter how many years he's lived. Not in all the ways that counted. He was always just a little bit too soft to take the kinds of hurts destiny ensured he'd be dealt, and, even now, as he gives one last feeble little thrash against Arthur's chest, his lips are tightly shut, barely letting the sounds sneak through. Whatever has him like this, it'll have to be pried out—he'll never give it up willingly, and, well, isn't that why Arthur is here? No one will ever understand better than he will—no one else even remembers the things that make Merlin who he is.

One more pained moan, and Arthur just catches his name at the end of it—and that's all it really takes. Merlin is no seer. It was never a talent of his, but he's boneless against Arthur now, breath short and sharp and hitched, the way it always was after Arthur'd had a scrape with danger. No big mystery what the nightmare was about.

Camlann is rather hard to forget.

"Open your eyes and look at me, Merlin," he orders softly, shifting so that Merlin is mostly on the bed, propped up against his shoulder.

Merlin does. Shows just how awake he _isn't_—he'd never be so quick to obey orders if he were fully conscious.

Goodness, though, dead sleep might be kinder. Someone—there's got to be _someone _who can pay for this—for the way Merlin is just a bit too light against him, thinner than usual. Arthur could deal with that, though. What he can't abide is the way Merlin, still too groggy to realize the openness he's radiating, looks up at him with rounded eyes that are fogged with sleep… but glazed with something else that's deeper, more worrying. If there's even a name for it, Arthur will be surprised. Sometimes words aren't enough to describe something that's so deeply carved into a person's being by years of ache and loneliness.

Jerkily, Merlin blinks, still staring. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he wrinkles his nose and sniffs, half an inhale and half indignation at apparently figuring out where he is. "Arthur?"

Yes. Always. It's not like they have a choice. And it's not like they want one. Not really.

Still, inevitability is only an excuse not to answer or explain, and Arthur never much liked those: but Merlin doesn't seem to want anything more than an excuse. Actually, he doesn't seem to want much more than what he's already doing himself: Arthur's mouth, though half-open, closes when Merlin lifts his own hand, splaying his fingers out; he lays it on Arthur's chest, directly over his heart. Normally, Arthur would at least ask what he thinks he's doing, but the tiny hitches in Merlin's breath, like a child still in the midst of a nightmare, stop him. A good decision, apparently—gradually, Merlin's breathing evens, calming to the point where a bit of color seeps back into his face and he relaxes a fair amount. Even then, though, he doesn't pull away from where he's propped against Arthur's shoulder, nor he doesn't drop his hand: he only pulls it back a scant few inches, his fingertips lingering, dragging out contact and wrinkling Arthur's nightshirt.

Merlin looks up at him. "You weren't breathing."

"What?" And then—_oh_. Merlin—he'd been matching their breathing.

Some part of that is disconcerting, at least in the implications of what it means Merlin saw in his sleep. Though, it does tell just about everything Arthur needs to know: as Arthur raises his gaze to stare sightlessly over the top of Merlin's head into the dark, he almost wishes it didn't tell him. His arm—the one around Merlin's back, holding him against his side, tightens, as if any firm grip could protect from _this_. Because knowing—_knowing _is a solid ache. And Arthur does know. He knows exactly what's eating at Merlin.

Even _Merlin _probably doesn't know what that is—not entirely.

But Arthur couldn't fail to know.

"It's _your_ breath anyway, Merlin," he says softly, reaching down and taking hold of Merlin's wrist. Carefully—not angrily, because he doesn't mind Merlin's actions and never could—he removes the hand from where it's still tracking his breathing and quite possibly his heartbeat. "I think we both know that."

Fervently, Merlin shakes his head. "No, Arthur." So like Merlin to protest the inevitable. "It's not—no. You can't know that."

"And you're feeling guilty for it, aren't you?"

It's not all that shocking when Merlin wrenches away from him, but it is undoubtedly pointless. Foolish, stupid, and completely superfluous. Where's he going to go? Ironically, that's the heart of this whole thing—he might as well be trying to walk away from his own shadow.

If Merlin shakes his head any harder, he's going to hurt himself. As if the nightmare weren't enough—curse him, though, when Arthur reaches out to try to stop him, Merlin jerks back as though burned. "You can't _know _that."

"Know what?" Arthur asks. Stupid Merlin, stupidly stretching this out, but, damn it, Arthur can't see a way out of playing this game if he wants any hope of getting Merlin to be the one to drag the real problem out into the light. Oh, it's one thing for Arthur to know what it is, but it's quite another for _Merlin _to acknowledge it. "Know that I was dead at Camlann?"

More frantic shaking, sending black tendrils of hair spraying in every direction. "No. You weren't—"

"And now you're just lying. Or maybe you really believe it. Not sure which is worse, actually."

A deep breath, enough that Merlin's chest heaves visibly under his shirt. For now, he's dressed in a spare shirt of Arthur's, as well as a pair of his trousers. It's not ideal, but who could really blame him for not being quite ready for Merlin's arrival? He's been rather busy—mostly with things Merlin has mucked up for him, actually—in the recent days.

"You _can't _have been. Once life is gone—"

"A simple life isn't quite enough to bring it back. I'm aware, Merlin. You've explained it to me. Raising the dead is dark magic."

"You weren't gone yet—"

Now that's just annoying—Merlin, trying to duck away off the other side of the bed, that is. Arthur will tolerate a lot, but never any sort of cowardice: Merlin will face this head on. There's no alternative—obviously, hiding from it hasn't done him much good. "And, yet, I think I was."

"No—"

Grabbing Merlin's wrist, he yanks him back to the center of the bed, ignoring the slight hiss of pain. It's not as though Merlin would have gotten far anyway, what with how he's tangled in the sheets still, but it's just the principle of the thing—of trying to slink away from a question he very clearly has tried to obliterate from his mind.

"But _you _weren't offering an ordinary life in exchange for mine, were you, Merlin?" A sharp shove from Merlin's free hand follows. "Oh, stop that—" All that squirming Merlin is doing is making keeping a hold of him difficult and—there. A hand on his neck, not squeezing, but just _holding_. It at least stills him. "You offered your life for my life—expect you're immortal, which mucks up the balance, doesn't it? You tied us together. You live; I live. You die; I die. And neither of us stays dead. Reincarnation is kind of a bitch, though, wouldn't you agree?"

"Let go of me, Arthur."

A warning. Well, to hell with that. When has Arthur ever heeded warnings? "My life, your life, a bit one in the same these days. And _that _is why you've been so uncharacteristically diligent in hiding from me, isn't it? You feel responsible. Everything I've done, you feel responsible." Pausing, he slips his pointer finger up onto Merlin's pulse point, resting it there against the steady rhythm of Merlin's heart. The beat is the same as his own. "And may I just be the first to tell you what utter bullocks that is?"

Merlin scowls. "Go ahead. And while you're at it, well and truly shove off."

"I made my own decisions, Merlin. You tied my life to yours, yes, but all that did was give me breath. All my decisions are _my own_. Don't you try to walk around with my guilt as well as your own."

That is, apparently, some sort of trigger. Quite the impressive glare Merlin has, all narrowed eyes and pursed lips, and, really, he must have learned from Gaius how to make his eyebrow convey that degree of disapproval. "You've twisted this so far past redemption, Arthur, that I don't even know where my guilt ends and yours begins. A bit like our lives, actually."

A good point. "We do seem to have blurred, don't we?"

"I did that—"

"To save me—"

"And I think I was wrong."

Ah. Well. _Well_.

Here they are, he and Merlin sitting on a bed in the dark, enclosed by a building that is the finest money can buy these days, and yet everything still hinges on them. Merlin is blinking, watching Arthur with eyes reflecting the moonlight, and Arthur can feel his pulse under his hand—the grip Merlin isn't trying to get out of. Nothing about this is typical, but even now, they could never be separate. Destiny or loyalty or whatever word describes it.

But Merlin wishes he'd let him die.

That shouldn't feel so much like a punch to the gut, but, really, it does. Arthur finds his hand flexing on Merlin's neck, not choking—when has he ever really wanted to hurt Merlin? Never, and that's what's made this whole cat and mouse game so very stupid. Merlin never should have run from him at all.

Running. Oh, yes. This new dimension of Merlin's personality that looks a lot like cowardice is not endearing, Arthur does have to admit. Oddly, it's one of the few things about Merlin that isn't.

"So why did you save me then?" he asks tonelessly, watching the shadows play off of Merlin's face, burrowing down into the bags under his eyes. "Knee-jerk reaction? Just gotten so used to doing it?"

The words are hardly out of his mouth before Merlin's hand shoots up to grip Arthur's wrist. A hint of nail digs down into his skin, but the real attention-grabber is the way Merlin nearly bares his teeth, clenching his jaw down so hard that Arthur could swear his cheekbones could actually cut the skin laid over them. It morphs his face into all jagged angles, catching and trapping the moonlight, radiating it back in the reflection of his eyes in a rather disturbing picture that could, for all intents and purposes, be a poster for a movie on slowly progressing insanity. Whatever it is that Merlin has got, it's tearing him apart from the inside out. What it is, though—Arthur can't entirely say.

And so instead he just watches, waiting, hardly even breathing when Merlin swallows and—good God—_smiles_.

"I said I was wrong," he murmurs, sounding for all the world like this is the bitterest concept his moral palate has ever had the misfortune to taste. "I said I was _wrong_-not that I regret doing it."

As they both know, that is something else entirely.

Arthur drops his hand from Merlin's throat. "Well." God help him—he can't—what can he even _say _to that? _You tore the world apart, but I'm glad I saved you anyway, Arthur. _There's just—there's no reply for it.

"Yes," Merlin agrees. He looks away then, his breath skittering out in a broken wheeze. "And what kind of person does that make me?"


	7. Chapter 7

[September 15th, 2007]

He shouldn't be here.

The Prince of Wales should not be sitting in an old beater out in front of some local neighborhood playground. It's a bit strange, actually—his security would probably agree with him… which is why he made quite sure they had no notice of where he was going, and then took a few wrong turns besides.

Scrubbing his arm across his nose—stupid itch—Arthur smothers a laugh. Even if they thought to look for him here, they'd never look twice at the piece of junk car he's sitting in. What was it? Fifteen years old? Rust damage? He hadn't really bothered to find out when he'd bought it, and given that the man was perfectly happy to ask no questions when Arthur paid him in cash, it's probably best not to know just what this car has been through. As it is, there's a suspicious stain in the backseat that he _really _would prefer not to look at all that closely, though it's nowhere near as troubling as the smell emanating from the radiator.

Worrying stains and smells aside, though, this is worth it, right down to the atrocious jacket—_fake _leather—that he pulled on before coming here. A suit would've attracted attention, considering the area of town.

And, really, that's what concerns him most.

What is _Merlin _doing in this area of town?

Worrying his lip with his teeth—a childhood habit he never quite shook—Arthur reaches out and fiddles with the radio. Just static. Fine. Not like he's here for the music anyway.

That doesn't mean he's going to just _sit _here, though. Not like he's ever been good at that. Not in this life or the previous, if he recalls correctly, which he's sure he does, and, considering that, why doesn't Merlin recall anything? _Does _he recall anything? Does—?

Right, Arthur thinks, frustration rolling over him as he leans back in the seat, shoving his head into the cushioning. He doesn't know if Merlin remembers. That's why he's here. For all the good that's doing now, though: in a sudden fit of pure what-the-hell-Merlin-where-are-you, he shoves himself forward again, right up against the steering wheel. A quick realization and a nervy jerk backward are about all that saves him from setting the horn off.

No one outside notices. The couple of kids, none of whom are Merlin, keep at whatever they're doing. It looks like they're just standing at the swings, best as he can tell.

Swearing—because he really doesn't care to watch children he doesn't know—Arthur reaches for the file in the passenger seat. There's really no need for him to look again, but the broken radio—or whatever that junk is supposed to pass for—gives him a solid excuse. Better than just sitting here. And it's not like the image isn't imprinted in his mind anyway—might as well just look at the real thing again in order to confirm.

He flips open the folder.

Merlin Emrys. Twelve years old. Son of Balinor and Hunith Emrys.

It'd be better if it just stopped there.

Merlin looks okay in the picture Arthur has of him. He's still got that same lopsided, sloppy, and too damn endearing smile—the kind that always managed to make him look half his age, even once he put on enough years to suggest that shouldn't be possible. Same ears too, poor kid. He's probably gotten hell for looking like that growing up. This isn't Ealdor—people care about stuff like that now. That's not particularly surprising—people tend to have a little more time to gossip when they aren't working from sunrise to sunset and then a bit after besides.

No, the picture is fine. It's a school picture, and if Merlin doesn't look quite happy, he at least looks pleased in the moment. A picture in time, the snap of the camera—school photo day, and Hunith must have forced him into that tie, because God knows Merlin never liked to wear anything remotely formal if he had the choice.

If Arthur looks a little closer, though—really _looks_—it's not so hard to see what might be more pleasant to miss. Over the last few days, he's forced himself to face it enough times, but it—it's like he _owes _Merlin this, he thinks, skimming his fingers over the edges of the folder, catching the corner of it under his fingernail. Merlin deserves for Arthur to at least see the stain on the tie, the way his shirt is just a bit too worn on the shoulders. His face is clean, but his hair is overly long, like no one has been able to take the time to cut it.

And they probably haven't. Hunith Emrys works two jobs. She does the best she can, but Merlin spends a lot of his time home alone with the neighbors' numbers printed clearly on a sheet pinned to the refrigerator, just in case he needs help. Balinor—the man has _tried_, but two tours of duty have taken a lot out of him. An honorable discharge, highly decorated, but a lot of good those things do him when some days he can't even look in the mirror. He spends a good deal of time in the pubs, from what Arthur has managed to find out. Loves his wife and his son. Would do anything for them… but can't always do what he needs to in order to help himself first.

And Merlin is suffering for it.

Merlin.

Somehow, Arthur feels it the moment Merlin's feet touch tar, entering the park. He could never describe how, not even to himself, but before he's even actually sighted Merlin, he's putting the folder down, scanning the park. It's a bit of a chore to do that while seeming not interested. No, he's not interested. Not at _all_. Pity he's not that good an actor—and even if he were, he's tooinvested to seem disinterested.

For good reason.

He's not surprised when a small voice cuts out through the park, unremarkable in every way except that it belongs to _Merlin_. Things are never quite that easy, though—the surprise he doesn't feel at Merlin's voice is made up for plenty when he gets a look at just how _small _Merlin is. He's… only a little thing. Painfully skinny, not in the kind of way that suggests he's not getting fed, but just… Merlin. He was always slight, and here he is as a child before he hit his growth spurt, all huge ears that seem to dwarf his face and gangly limbs that Arthur can't quite figure out how he doesn't trip over.

It probably doesn't help that his clothes are a bit big for him. Thrift store buys, maybe, or even more likely, hand-me-downs. Whatever they are, they're too loose, they're stained, and it's obvious that he probably can't afford much better.

It's clear, right from the start, that the other kids know it too.

None of them are anything particularly special to look at. All of their clothes look cheap enough, even dirty in some cases, but, unlike Merlin, their appearance seems to meld with them more. Merlin—he just looks dreadfully out of place, too innocent and childish for the surroundings. Merlin was poor the first time Arthur knew him, but there had been a wholesomeness about it—an idealism that had ceased to be present at Court. Here, now—there is no idealism about this place, with its broken buildings and run-down houses.

It seems Arthur has a bit of idealist left in him: he can hardly recognize what he's seeing when he glances down and finds his hands white knuckled on the steering wheel. Worse, there's a very persistent itch squirming against his skin that makes him want to get out of the car, grab Merlin, and go, regardless of what Merlin remembers.

This is _Merlin_. Memories or not, he is _Merlin_, and that means quite enough all on its own.

Obviously, it's a horrid idea. This isn't Camelot where no one will question anything he does. This is twenty-first century England, and laws apply, even to the Prince of Wales. Kidnapping a child—it's not something he can _do_, and, anyway, what would he tell Uther when he showed up with a pre-teen in tow?

A sharp cry draws his attention back to Merlin. Less than a minute. Less than _one _minute, and damn if Merlin hasn't managed to get himself into trouble. It's almost like old times, only then it was Arthur standing over him, laughing in a marketplace and pretending to sweep out the trash. That—it's different. It's him, and it's Merlin. These kids—they have no right to shove Merlin down like that.

When one of them places a clumsily aimed kick—no good combat training these days—to Merlin's gut, it ceases to even be a dilemma: Arthur's hand snaps to the catch on the door, and he's kicking the door out wide too quickly to consider the consequences. So what? He wouldn't change his mind even if he had a ten-page list of pros and cons.

"Problem?"

Once, Merlin had told him he could dress in rags and there would be no denying who he was. _You reek of royal pratishness _Merlin had assured him. Arthur had, obviously, brushed him off, because he _was _royalty, and he certainly had to present like it. Regality was just in his blood… and Merlin hadn't really minded it that much anyhow. He'd just liked to whine and poke and prod.

Thing is, though, the way these boys are looking at him—it might actually be a bit… well, _true_. True in a rather relevant way. That is to say, he can't imagine that with a single glance he can convey I-have-led-thousands-of-men-into-battle-killed-more-than-you-want-to-know-and-can-do-the-same-to-you-even-unarmed, but, somehow, he seems to have conveyed exactly that, and it's got the kids taking one look at him and making it very clear that they'd really prefer not to have a second look.

Except for Merlin.

The way he pokes his head up, messy hair falling all over his face reminds Arthur rather firmly of a fuzzy baby animal. He's got the same kind of wide-eyed look, the same sort of helplessness that practically demands protection from those who can give it.

His eyes fix on Arthur. They skitter away to glance at the retreating boys. And then they're back, blinking slowly… and with no recognition.

Arthur doesn't even try to deny the surge of disappointment that rushes into his gut and curdles there.

"Who're you?" Merlin asks slowly. He still hasn't quite uncurled, but has instead tipped upward, righting himself, but keeping his knees loosely drawn to his chest, defensive. Evidently this isn't his first run-in with those boys. He's got the look of someone who expects to get tossed around a little more—and he's steeling himself for it.

_Who am I? I'm Arthur_. _Your friend. Your king. The other half of some crazy destiny that neither of us has quite figured out yet. _

"I'm no one." How sour those words taste on his tongue. Nothing about it feels right—the lie comes out of his mouth only reluctantly, anchoring barbs on the insides of his cheeks on the way out, clinging. "I took a wrong turn and pulled over to check my map. I saw that you were having some trouble."

Merlin scrubs his hand over his face. Too bad it just smears the dirt more. "M'fine."

"Oh? So you make a habit of lying on the ground?"

A person's lower lip shouldn't be able to stick out like that—really, it shouldn't, and it's not even that Merlin is _trying _to pout. He's just managing to look incredibly insulted and, okay, yes, petulant, all on natural talent. The emotion doesn't even look bratty on him. How unfair is that? Arthur spent his childhood getting scolded for things like that.

"I had it under control."

He feels his lips twitch into a smile. "Did you now?"

"Yes!"

"Didn't look like it."

Don't laugh. He shouldn't. It's—Merlin is just a child. Goodness, though, it's tempting. Still, he could pass up the laughing if he could just let Merlin know that, hey, twenty years from now? He'll still be capable of making faces like that. Personally, Arthur thinks it's the ears—no one can look entirely grown up with ears like that, and Merlin's habit of smiling with such childish openness—it hadn't helped.

"Those kids bother you often?" he asks.

Merlin just shrugs. Everything about the way his shoulder blades poke up under the oversized fabric—it's unsettling.

"I—" _could help you. Want to help you. Am already planning ways to help you. _

Inch by inch, Merlin cocks his head, a little like a ridiculous puppy. It would be funny—sort of still is—if Merlin hadn't done exactly that same thing in Camelot. It explains why the cook and the maid and the seamstress and just about every female—and some of the men—in Camelot had felt the need to mother Merlin.

Arthur—he can remember those days. Looking at Merlin now, the memories gain clarity, focusing the same way a fuzzy, muffled dream does once he begins remembering it. One thing connects to another, and pretty soon details are materializing, filling his mind, explaining things he already knew. Merlin getting leftovers from the cook, being snuck sweets by the girls in the kitchen; the seamstress stealing Merlin's jacket just so she could add some extra insulation to it; the knights, affectionate and teasing, dragging Merlin with them like a favored younger brother only they had the leave to pick on. They'd all been protective of Merlin. Arthur—he won't even try to deny any of it, not when he can remember so many times. Magic or not, they'd watched out for Merlin.

And the thing is, Arthur can't change now. He doesn't even want to, no matter how much this pull toward Merlin probably seems, for all the world, like he ought to be a danger—the kind of person Merlin has been warned against. Don't take candy from strangers. Don't get in people's cars. Oh, and don't talk to the weirdo who knows you from a pervious life and is feeling responsible for you. It's the sort of thing they teach in school, right?

Merlin, though—he's eyeing Arthur with fascination, peering up from under his shaggy bangs. There's nothing to suggest that he's scared—not exactly—but after a lifetime on the battlefield, it's not like Arthur doesn't know what _tension _is.

Tight muscle, that spark of not-quite-trust in Merlin's eyes. Even the quiet twitching of his mouth, small as gestures go, but always a giveaway. Never a loud gesture—and Merlin wasn't prone to showing his nerves that way anyhow, at least not when it counted.

"I should get home," Merlin mumbles after a few moments of awkward silence.

A lie. Merlin just got to the park, and Arthur knows very well that no one is waiting at home for him. Eleven and a half, and Merlin is being left alone like this. Frankly, Arthur would stalk right up to Hunith's door and demand to know just what she thinks she's doing if he didn't _already know_. Hell, though, that doesn't make it better: she's working to support a child and a mentally unstable husband. She's doing the best she can.

And it is entirely not good enough. Merlin deserves better.

Scuffing his feet in the dirt, Merlin staggers to his feet and takes a step back. Was there something on Arthur's face? Some sort of indication? He doesn't think so, but it's possible—his jaw is clenched, and even if he wouldn't admit it aloud, even under penalty of death, he won't lie to himself: he's thinking very seriously about whether or not he could get away with taking Merlin with him. Give him a bath, some decent food, clothes that fit, and it's not as though Merlin isn't going to remember eventually…

Another step back. "You should be going too," Merlin says, the tightness of his lips very clearly stating that it's not a suggestion. If he looked angry, it might have been easier to hear—but there's no anger in his face. If anything, it's only a vague confusion, at worst suspicion, but entirely devoid of malice. Merlin never did hate what he didn't understand. He wasn't like most people that way. Seems that hasn't changed.

"If you need anything—"

Merlin ducks his head and turns away. "I won't." One step, then another, coming faster and faster until he's skittering away across the dusty ground.

Don't let him walk away. Call him back. Do _something_. Arthur could, but… but he couldn't. Not feasibly. This isn't Camelot, and it's obvious that Merlin doesn't know him, and he can't just take a child that doesn't know him. It's _Merlin_, but it's not the Merlin he knew. Not yet. And that—it grips at Arthur's chest, squeezing in a knot of anxiety, in the knowledge that he _can't fix this_ because it's not broken. It's just life. Another life. Merlin doesn't remember _their _life yet.

Morgana doesn't either. Maybe she never will. Merlin will, though. Watching Merlin turn and hurry away from him, kicking up dust with his battered sneakers—he's well aware that he has no way of _knowing _that for sure, but _he_ remembers, and if the half can never truly hate that which makes it whole, then surely it can't forget what makes it whole either.

Closing his eyes, Arthur tips his head back and inhales the smell of asphalt and heat. Damn it all. He doesn't need some prophecy that a dragon told Merlin. Arthur just _knows_. Merlin will remember him. He'd stake his life on that. He _knows_.

And he also knows that time hasn't come yet.

* * *

[November 10th, 2013]

"You really cut yourself up."

Merlin can't find it in himself to do more than nod. Gwen has no idea just how true that is, especially in ways beyond his skin.

Not that his skin isn't a problem: that encounter with the glass left a degree of damage. Truthfully, if he were normal—if it were possible—he ought to be getting himself stitched up in a hospital. He can see the flap of skin, hanging sliced to the side and oozing blood. At least it's oozing now. Before it was pretty well flowing. Even Arthur had noticed it, but apparently he'd had other things on his mind. Goodness, though, how strange to think that Arthur probably would have helped him take care of it if things had worked out only a little differently back there. In fact, it would likely have been Arthur's doctors actually stitching the wound up while Arthur himself looked on, rather than Gwen, doing her best to clean and bandage and wrap.

Or maybe Arthur wouldn't have helped at all. But… no. It'd be easier to think that, but the Arthur he just faced—he would have helped. And that's terrifying, because how can Merlin possibly vilify someone who still cares for him?

"Am I hurting you?"

Gwen. He hadn't meant to tune her out. Really, he hadn't. In fact, her gentle fingers are about the nicest thing he's felt since he lost his mom. Being cared for—it's good. Really good, and Gwen was always talented at that. "You're fine," he assures her, trying to smile as she wraps the last bit of bandage around his hand. She's already taped up his side, for which he'd had to shed his shirt… and apparently he still hasn't put it back on. Well, then.

Damn it, he's blushing. He can feel it in the heat of his cheeks.

"Thanks," he murmurs, reaching hurriedly for the discarded piece of clothing.

It's just like when he first came to Camelot—and how stupid is that? He's known this woman for years, and yet here he is, glancing awkwardly up at her when she goes to hand him the shirt and their hands brush. She jerks back just a little too quickly, favoring him with an awkward glance of her own, and, yes, it's endearing, like it always was when she was still an unsure serving girl, back before she became a queen and learned better.

Honestly, though, he's not sure it _was _better. The Gwen who bumbled and said things that sounded terrible was a Gwen that seemed more honest. It wasn't that she was a liar once she learned to speak eloquently and refrain from making those awkward comments—but it never quite seemed like _her _either. She'd lost something.

In all honesty, Merlin can't imagine the Gwen who was a servant with him in those first years as someone who would have been unfaithful to Arthur.

"It was brave of you, what you did."

Oh? He looks up at her—and sees that she means it. There's a softness around her eyes, sympathy welled there, but it's belayed by the conviction settled in the rest of her face. But such gentle hands, even amidst all their encountering, and, yes, _this _is the Gwen he most admired. Always.

"And standing against your dictatorial husband isn't?" he asked with a thin smile. The bandage feels pretty good—not too tight; he flexes his fingers just to be sure. Gwen's fingers—they don't leave the dressing, not even when he moves. She just glides with his movements.

"Is it? Lovers often make the best enemies, I've found."

Interesting thought. "You think so?"

Her hand slips down, hovering over the line of skin where the bandage ends. If he had to guess, he would wager she doesn't even know she's doing it—whatever is going on in her head, she's too lost in it, bighting her lower lip and staring straight through him. "To be that intimate with someone—and then to have it fall apart…."

How terribly, terribly ironic. Arthur, of all people, would know most how she feels. Merlin doesn't laugh—couldn't get it out even if he wanted to, but, hell, hearing her say this now is so close to gallows humor—everything fell apart after what she did, after all. And she never even caught Arthur in bed with another woman. Not like Arthur caught her with Lancelot. Betrayed love? Arthur could have written the book. His uncle, his sister, his wife…

Not that Merlin will tell her. He never would. If she doesn't know… and, anyway, Arthur married her again this time around. God only knows _why_.

But that's not entirely true. Merlin—as much as he doesn't want to—as much as it makes his chest ache to consider when he's seen just how it plays out—he knows. Gwen is good, despite her faults. Beautiful. Kind. She always meant well, and he knows better than anyone that no one is perfect. She made a mistake—made_ mistakes_. It doesn't make her evil. And Arthur _loves _her. He will always love her. She could stab him to his face, kill him stone dead, and he would _love _her. He could resent her enough to send her away, because he couldn't stand to see her face, but he would still love her through it all. She _did_ inadvertently help destroy his kingdom, and he loves her enough to marry her again.

But, this time, she thinks _Arthur _has betrayed _her_.

"I'm sure he loves you," Merlin finds himself murmuring. He keeps on defending Arthur, even when he's fighting against him, just like Arthur stills loves Gwen, no matter what happens. It makes Merlin's head ache. He—he should have _seen _it. Arthur—he is not insane, and Merlin—did he ever really think he was? He can't be sure. Arthur has taken over, but he is not crazy, and it would be _so much easier _if he were. Because an Arthur who still loves his friends, loves his wife—that's too human. Too _Arthur_.

And Merlin doesn't want to fight _Arthur_.

She shrugs. "Yes. I think he loves me. And I think I loved him. But what he's done—what he's _done_..." She trails off, inhaling, exhaling, her eyes fluttering closed in time with the settling of her hands in her lap, all a visible attempt to calm herself. She must succeed to her satisfaction, because after a few moments she begins again: "I was blind to what he was doing at first, and when I found out, he was hardly even surprised—like he'd expected it all along. We were together, married, but for him—looking back, he never treated it as quite real. He never seemed to think it would last. He wasn't surprised when I confronted him, when I threatened to leave. It was—everything was a mess. I can't forgive him for that—for doing that to me."

Yes. Betrayal is cold like that. Like the cold side of the bed where the covers are still made up. Like seeing another man run away with your wife. Cold like _that_.

Swallowing down the rolling in his stomach, Merlin looks away from Gwen, pulling his arm slowly from her grasp. It's hard to do, difficult to feel her fingertips trail off and away from his skin, hear her surprised inhale of breath when she realizes how long she'd been touching him. And, worst, it's still hard not to admire her. Gwen. Gwen, who is always strong, who was wrong, who's fighting an Arthur who is and isn't the Arthur they know and love. Gwen would have left. Gwen _did _leave—has made her break from Arthur. Gwen is facing Arthur in a way—Merlin grimaces—in a way _he _can't seem to bring himself to do. He—he—God knows he's trying, but Arthur—it is _Arthur_. How can he truly oppose that when it comes right down to it?

"I don't think lovers always make the best enemies," he admits, blowing out a too-long held breath. Funny how those words feel cold coming out of his mouth. "But I do think they can make some of the best friends."

Once, Gwen was Arthur's friend. A good friend. Good counsel. He'd never seen Arthur happier, and, damn it, why couldn't things have stayed like that?

Gwen raises her chin, watching him unabashedly. "Maybe. When it's going right. No one will ever be closer to you. But when it goes wrong—there is no one you want to push away more. No one you resent more."

"Maybe not."

Somewhere along the line, this conversation has ventured to a place he very assuredly doesn't want to go. He can't tell Gwen about the nights he spent out on the ramparts in the cold with Arthur after she left, experiencing the ache Arthur felt, just because it was Arthur, and he was Merlin, and that always meant what no one could understand.

_Was it something I did, Merlin?_

_No. No, Arthur, don't think that._

The way Arthur had looked at him, had smiled bitterly. _I don't hate her, _he'd said, and then he'd looked away, back out into the darkness, searching for something Merlin didn't understand then and still doesn't understand now. Arthur had raised his face to the wind, had let it pound over him until his skin was raw and chapped, and Merlin had dragged him back inside to a hot bath in the dead of the night. It was always the same, night after night: Arthur walking the floors, disappearing, letting—no other word for it—Merlin find him. Sometimes he'd allow Merlin to lead him back to bed. Other times they'd stayed up, sitting silently together at the table. Occasionally, they'd played dice. No one had ever won.

Merlin had always privately thought that they'd lost far too much already for any sort of victory to take place. Winning would have been a mockery.

And Gwen doesn't know any of that. Never did.

She can't be aware of what he's thinking, but when Merlin looks up and finds her brushing a piece of hair out of her face, he has to wonder if she's trying. She leans toward him, serious; Merlin shouldn't be, but he's drawn in by the earnestness of her face—in the pure belief there. "Arthur is dangerous, Merlin. I've seen it. The things he's done—is going to do—they're unforgivable."

Yes. He understands that. He has seen what Arthur has done, what he has destroyed. But God help him, every bit of _his _being is quivering to forgive Arthur. It has always been like that. It's like forgiving _himself_—he may never quite be able to, but he will always make up excuses, try to justify, to make himself feel better, more vindicated. He would—he'd forgive Arthur where she can't, but, still, he—hell, he _knows_. He knows what it is to see Arthur do these things, to love him, to watch that be misplaced.

The first time around—he'd never understood why Gwen did what she did. But this—he understands _this_.

He understands, but he cannot do the same.

It all comes down to his shaking hands and shaky conscience. A life lived doubly. Neither his hands nor his conscience can hold all this up anymore. "Thanks for your help," he tells Gwen quietly, gesturing to his arm. It was good of her to patch him up; it reminds him of those times when Camelot was at war, under siege—any of the times she'd helped nurse the wounded. It's bitter that she doesn't remember—he'd like to talk with her about it. Anything would be better than _this _conversation; it's gone on too long. Sadly, he's never gotten any better at slinking out of situations of this nature—it was never a skill he learned at Court, despite how useful it would have been. He'll always seem rude when he gets up like he's doing, giving Gwen a short, forcibly courteous nod. Smile. He should smile. But the muscles just don't seem to work.

He turns to go, but her voice calls him back. "Merlin."

She sounds so… fragile. And he can't understand why. "Yes?" _Keep walking _part of him says, but his feet don't move, and, at the very least, that's better than turning around and going closer to her.

"I don't want you to hate me."

Hate? No. He hadn't meant…

The air squeezes from his lungs. It's such a bad habit—this seizing up of muscle. Nervous, stressed, scared—any of it. "I don't know you," he lies. "How could I hate you?"

A line creases over her brow; she blinks a little too rapidly, leaving the line to twitch strangely with each movement. It's nearly a nervous tick—but he doesn't say anything. "I don't know," she says. "But you…"

He doesn't hate her. Not in this life, and not in the previous one. But he—he has _something _towards her. Some feeling. It's indefinable, though so infinitely present that he cannot fail to fall to its influence. But she wouldn't understand if he explained—there is no language of emotions. He can't say that he feels seeing Arthur pacing the castle at night. He can't say that he feels seeing Gwen with Lancelot. And, yet, those things—they are what hang in his mind, twined inextricably with _Gwen_.

Along with laughter. A gentle cloth on his forehead when he was ill. Flowers. Easy friendship.

He turns away again.

Behind him, he can hear her shift her feet, probably switching weight from one to the other. "I unsettle you, Merlin, even if I don't understand why. And I'm sorry for that."

Sorry for the unsettling? Or sorry she doesn't know why? Both? Does it matter? Either way, he'll lie. Or maybe he'll tell the truth just a little too well. Some days, there's not much of a difference. "Most people unsettle me these days."

A pause, and then… "I'd like not to be one of them."

And he'd like for her not to be. He'd like a lot of things, and—the taste of iron is spreading over his tongue. What…? Oh. Blood. He's bitten too hard on his lip. Quite possibly, his life just wants to flow out with his answer—it's a bit of a victory when all that comes out is words: "I appreciate that." _And I want that_. She was Merlin's friend too. She really never stopped being his friend.

But what she did to Arthur…

No. Time to go.

Licking the blood clear of the cut, he finishes his trek to the door. "Thank you for helping me, Guinevere," he says quietly, slipping out. Right, now shut the door. Walk away. This is not a time of serving banquets together, of mending clothes, of _everything_—and… he turns back: she's framed in the crack of the doorway, staring after him, hands clasped in front of her. He can't help but meet her eyes. _I'm the woman you knew_, they lie, and… he likes the lie, swallows it, setting his hands on the door, slowing in the closing, staring instead. It's not long before he stops shutting it altogether.

"I'm glad you're all right," she says quietly. Then, hesitatingly, she takes a step forward. "Do you… know Arthur?"

On the door, his fingers flex. Slam it, slam it. But he doesn't. And she takes another step forward. "Does it matter?"

"It always does. Why is he after you? He's never mentioned you before."

Wouldn't he just love to laugh at that? The muscle in his jaw even twitches in anticipation, but the emotion isn't quite there; the effort is too much, and he's left with a blank stare. "I don't suppose he would have."

"He hurt you." _Like he hurt me _the look on her face says.

"He stabbed me in the leg with a needle. Of course he hurt me."

Gwen shifts uneasily, wringing her hands. "He's got all of Britain looking for you. You must have something he wants. And you're only eighteen."

"I don't see how those two things correlate," he admits, laughing a little bitterly. Somewhere along the line, his fingers have loosened their grip on the door, resting lightly. He really has no business in even pretending that he's still going to close it in the very near future.

Giving in, he just pushes it all the way back open.

She frowns. Well, what? He hadn't meant for that to be upsetting. "You shouldn't be forced to face this."

_Actually, I'm centuries old. More than old enough to face this. And look how much good those centuries are doing me. _Doesn't quite flow off the tongue… "If I recall correctly, you're only twenty-eight yourself."

"Ten years makes a lot of difference. And you were just shot at. Assaulted. Hunted. I want to make certain you're all right."

She's not even lying—he can tell. It would be so much easier to hate Gwen if she didn't mean her compassion. She does, though, means it just as much as she ever meant anything else. Her love for Lancelot, for Arthur—it is, as far as he can tell, all part of that intricate, complicated mess of goodness and emotion. It's just the bit that's gone wrong. And he can't hate her for it.

His fingers clench more firmly into the wood.

Damn it, he's so tired. A nap—he needs a nap. Maybe he should have just gone with Arthur. Arthur would have let him sleep if that was what Merlin wanted…

Yeah, and all the world would have kept right on going to whatever Hell Arthur has apparently decided to lead it to. While Merlin napped. It's going that way anyhow, though, no matter what he does.

_Because you won't really face him_, his mind whispers, and, yes, he flinches. Gwen sees it, and he could swear in frustration, but he doesn't. There's no point. She's better than him in this, anyway: she'll fight against Arthur, and Merlin will try, but he just….

Leaning his head into the wood of the door, he sighs. "I appreciate the thought. I'll be all right."

"You don't look all right. You look terrible. Oh! Not to say you aren't attractive, but I only meant that you look sick—not that _I _think you're attractive, but I could see how you… could be…" She looks away quickly.

Blunt, and, yes, there she goes, half shocked at her own mouth, but not quite taking it back, because under it all, she _is _right. Even so, it's nice to see that spark of her—the Gwen he knew in the beginning. And, despite everything, it makes him smile.

"You're a good woman, Gwen. Thank you for your concern."

"If you need anything, you'll tell me?"

Probably not. "Yes."

Giving her one last, small smile, he pulls back into the hallway. It wasn't all a lie. Most everything is, but part of it-she _is _a good woman. He knows it as he sees her watching him go, brows etched in concern. She's his friend. Imperfect, but his friend. A betrayer, but if he still cares for Arthur after all that he's done, then forgiving Gwen—it should be nothing.

Shouldn't it?

Closing his eyes, he forces down the pounding in his head that sounds a lot like _lie, lie, lie._


	8. Chapter 8

[October 19th, 2007]

Off to the side of the room, the newsreel plays over and over, the trained, practiced tone of a newscaster's voice in the background. Occasionally, someone else joins—a new perspective, some expert, each as useless as the last—but they always leave after a few minutes, a revolving door of minds and political commentary crafted especially to be delivered into the greedy, bloated hands of the public, always clamoring for the sensational or the lurid, or, God forbid, the catastrophic.

It's not that Arthur doesn't see the broadcast. On the contrary, he does, all too well. He can't _not _hear it—staring at the very blue carpet of a room he's known all his life is not closing his eyes, and even if it were, he can't shut out the sounds.

God help him, though, it's not just a telly broadcast when it's your _father _they're talking about.

"Your majesty."

He's not ready. But when has that ever mattered?

Feeling like his spine may snap from the strain, Arthur leans back, dropping his hands down to his lap by absolute will alone. He's been leaning with his head down too long, obviously—the ache that radiates from the muscles just below his hairline would call for a good massage under normal circumstances.

"Go on," he says. Even to his own ears, his voice is hard—too cold, but there's nothing else for the situation.

The aid before him is young enough. Early thirties, perhaps. She must be very good if she's risen to this position so early in life. She looks competent enough: smart in her charcoal colored pencil skirt. Good legs, too—firm and lean, and nicely propped up by heals that look more like torture devices to Arthur's eye, but, then, who is he to guess? He doesn't know anything about women, what they like, about their clothes, or even what they're thinking. Her hair looks nice—dark, almost chestnut, and twisted up behind her head—but for all he knows, it could have taken her no time at all.

He doesn't care—doesn't care at all, so long as she's competent. At this point, it wouldn't matter if she were wearing a burlap bag, just as long as she could do her job.

"No one knows yet how they did it."

Not like he'd expect them to. "Are there any survivors?"

To her credit, she doesn't seem shaken by the question. Good. He couldn't handle excess emotion right now. As it is, the situation has him pinching the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes, wishing—just wishing that this would fade away.

"People on the outer edges of the building. But anyone near the epicenter itself…"

No more than he expected. "How the hell did this happen?"

It's difficult to begrudge her the slight skip in the track of her actions—the way her brow wrinkles slightly, hinting at confusion. But in the end she says nothing, presumably seeing that as the rhetorical question that it is. Good thing—if she actually tried to answer…. Trying to explain this—make something so complicated seem simple—he couldn't… Arthur exhales heavily. Sometimes, when you reduce things down to their simplest form, you simply can't avoid losing vital components.

Anyway, it's not like he doesn't know what happened. He knows better than anyone else, actually.

"The press wants a statement, your majesty."

No Parliament left? The king dead? Of course they do. In this case, they might not even be remiss in demanding it. "Then give them one."

The woman hardly even flinches at such an unreasonable order. Somehow, though, it just sets him on edge. She's good—she really is, but she's not the one he wants taking his orders. Every decision of this magnitude that he ever made in Camelot—he'd have been dictating to _Merlin_. If this had been Merlin, the statement would have already been written—_and_ it would have sounded perfectly like Arthur, because after years and years of Merlin writing Arthur's speeches, any speech Merlin wrote ended up sounding more like Arthur than Arthur sometimes did himself. It'd worked, and it had worked well.

This woman? She can be as competent as she wants, but she'll never be _that _good. No one else could ever possibly know him like Merlin did.

Not that Merlin wasn't a terrible servant. He was. He was horrid about all the proper protocol, and, yes, Parliament is up in flames, but even just the memory of that makes Arthur want to smile. Merlin broke just about every rule of etiquette that existed for a servant… but he was a damn good advisor, argumentative enough that he challenged and pushed when needed but so ridiculously loyal that there was never any question whose side he was on.

And anyway, somewhere in all of that, wrapped up in mutual respect and loyalty, they were _friends_. Merlin knew him like a friend—like the very best kind of friend. Two halves of the same whole. Cliché? Oh, yes, but once Merlin had finally told him about that prophesy, Arthur had never been able to find a better way to describe their relationship. Merlin had always just _known_.

As if anyone could ever find him another aid who can do _that_.

"Look," he says slowly, forcing his gaze back up to the woman. She's staring at him, face a bit pinched with confusion at the long pause he's just offered her. Too bad. She'll just have to wait; swallowing down the fluttering in his stomach, he finally says, "Parliament is gone. The king is dead. But I'm alive, and I will do everything in my power with the resources now at my disposal to track down the people who did this."

She nods. "Yes, Sir."

"I want Nimueh's face on every billboard, every news station. Everyone even suspected of working with her—I want them found." Does he even have the power to do that? Hard to tell. At this point, though, everyone else in the government who matters is dead, so who's going to call him on it? "And as I'm apparently now the commander of the British Armed Forces, get me someone from the Ministry of Defense who has some idea what's going on."

Funny—he doesn't even need to snap his fingers, and she's already off running. The door shuts behind her with a solid click, and just for a moment, Arthur allows himself the indulgence of leaning back in his chair and letting himself _be_. But, no—that's not allowed, because that insufferable telly is still blaring off to the side like a cheese grater on his ears.

_Parliament. Destroyed by magic. Gunpowder plot of modern day. _

It's a really terrible version of _V for Vendetta_, only this one—it's real. And Nimueh—it's not like it's all that surprising to hear her name in this. It's actually the only name they have—not that she didn't have help. Honestly, though, she never really succeeded in something this destructive back in Camelot. But that… was because of Merlin.

And where _is_ Merlin now?

Raking a hand through his hair, Arthur forces himself to his feet, eating up the ground with sharp, rapid strides until he reaches the television. And doesn't it just feel _perfect _to punch that button until the screen goes blank. Thank _God_.

Doesn't stop the words from reverberating in his head, though. Assassination. Mass killing. Magic.

_Magic._

For years now, it's been all about magic users' rights. It's been smeared all through the press, and after getting back his memories, Arthur had considered maybe supporting it, for the sake of people like Merlin. But not now. It's not possible now. Magic users' rights? Like hell. He'll give them rights. Maybe in Camelot they could be allowed to run unchecked, but not now—not when there's so much capacity for destruction. Destruction like concealing a bomb via magic—and how did that even happen when those spells are supposed to be detectable?—so that it could be smuggled undetected into Parliament.

No, it can't be allowed to continue. He's not his father—this isn't a blind hatred. This is practicality. And he'll do this right. Not indiscriminately, not brutally—execution is out of the question, as in it's totally and utterly ludicrous. Just a check of some kind, he thinks, breathing out heavily, one hand still resting on the top of the television, soaking in the residual warmth of the plastic under his hand. This won't be a modern day witch-hunt, because that's not what Britain needs, and it's not something he can condone—not when he watched his father play it out. But this isn't Camelot, and times have changed. Things are different than the first time he ruled, back when there weren't dangers like guns and, God forbid, nuclear weapons. This is the way things are now, and Arthur—he'll do what is necessary to keep his people safe. It's what he's always done. If fighting against magic is what it takes, that's what he'll do.

And Merlin.

He needs to find Merlin.

Though, first, he admits, closing his eyes as his stomach rolls and rolls and _rolls_, he might need to think of a way to make Merlin understand the steps he's about to take.

Because God knows that what he's about to do will look a lot like betrayal.

* * *

[October 17th, 2007]

Pregnancy tests are a little like time bombs. They just sit harmlessly, waiting for someone to activate them: once you pee on them, _that _is when someone pulls the pin and the countdown begins. At least with a bomb, though, you can dive out of the way.

It's a little harder to evade a positive sign.

Even if she tried, Morgana has no doubt it would bite her in the ass in a few months. A bulging belly is really one of those things you just can't hide.

She's seen Arthur a few times since that night. It's a bit hard to avoid him when his father has apparently decided that he needs to look after her. She really could curse her mother for whatever was in that note—doubly so now. Because of all the things she could face? Telling Uther that his son knocked her up is not high on her list.

Tossing the test in the trash, she mutters a curse under her breath, tacking Uther's name and a couple of insults to his parentage onto the end. Except… no, she can't do that. If he's inbred, then that means the baby is already genetically unstable. That's just—no.

Uther is going to be her child's grandfather.

How absolutely _funny_. So funny, in fact, that she grabs the cup she used to rinse out her mouth after she finished vomiting and hurls it at the wall. It shatters rather satisfyingly, though not nearly enough, and an unfairly short amount of time later—seconds, it seems—she's sinking down against the sink, cradling her forehead in her palms. How the hell did this happen?

She knows better. Always uses protection, which, yeah, right now, is a pretty terrible joke. She hadn't been seeing anyone, hadn't been taking the pill, and when she next sees Arthur Pendragon, she's going shove his face into a glass of alcohol until he drowns, because he will _deserve _it for getting her drunk that night. Drunk enough to forget to make him use a condom, apparently.

It'd be kind of nice if she were drunk now, though. Laughing a little, she tilts her head forward, resting it on her knees, letting the boniness of them poke into her hairline, pushing away the edges of a headache with the fresher, more gnawing pain of the pressure. Is it possible for her to stay like this? They'll find her body, starved, lying in the bathroom.

Hell, _no_. This is disgusting. She is not this weak. Except here she is, acting like it: that's as nauseating as the morning sickness, and in a fit of temper—not that she hasn't been in a sustained one of those for the last few minutes—she reaches up and grabs the edges of the sink, hauling herself to her feet.

Right. The mirror. Nice that it's _right there_, and she looks _terrible_. Kind of like she's just thrown up everything in her gut. Pale and clammy, almost like a vampire, and, really, that's just not fair, because it's the thing inside her that is sucking life—not her.

Only, it's not just a thing. Certainly, she'd like to lie to herself about that, but she's not a coward, and facing herself down in the mirror—it's impossible to deny. The hard set in her eyes at the thought of what she _could _do. A very quick medical procedure, and—no. The look on her face, it says no, no matter what her mind is considering.

Swallowing, she looks away.

She won't do it. This baby—for whatever reason, is hers, and that means something. It. Is. Hers. A little tiny part of herself, no matter what Arthur Pendragon had to do with it.

At least it will be a good looking child, if the parents are anything to go by. Hopefully it will get her brains. And her personality. And hopefully Arthur Pendragon will go straight to Hell, because this is his fault….

And she needs a painkiller. Very badly. And a nap. Hell, yes, a _nap_….

* * *

[December 13th, 2013]

Arthur wakes up early the next morning. He never did make it back to his own bed: it had been late, and everything had been a mess. Shoving Merlin over and deciding to share had been the easier course of action. He'd expected complaints, protestations that it was only a nightmare—and after what Merlin said about why he'd saved him, Arthur hardly would have thought he'd want Arthur there. But Merlin—he hadn't said anything. He'd only rolled over, making room, and then had proceeded to lie awake for hours.

Arthur would know. He couldn't sleep either.

Sometime in the night, though, Merlin had managed to drop off, leaving Arthur lying next to him, soaking in the rhythms of his breathing. Merlin's breathing. Frankly, _Arthur's _breathing. The two are, as Merlin admitted, inextricably linked, thanks to what happened at Camlann.

Sometime in between trying to hold his breath to see if it affected Merlin and drawing air in after giving up, he'd slipped off to sleep.

But here it is—morning. And it's like the night never ended at all.

Physically, the large windows looking out over the city herald the light in regardless of how Arthur feels. And that's all right—he never draws the curtain, and apparently Merlin didn't think to either before going to bed. It's possible he was running too high on emotions to even notice it, but it seems nicer—more comforting—to think that's just Merlin being Merlin. He's always liked the sun.

Stepping out of bed, Arthur sinks his toes into the rug, flexing them as he leans back and stretches the muscles of his back. Oh, that's good. He's never been a morning person, but this first burst of sensation—the feeling of muscles coming alive after a long sleep—it's almost enough to make it tolerable.

Almost.

Making his way around the bed, he heads toward the bathroom, sparing only a quick backwards glance for Merlin. Still asleep. Good. Merlin had a rough night—though one would never know it to look at him now: he's settled on his stomach, mouth hanging slightly open, one hand curled around the top of the blanket until he's drawn it up under his chin and nestled his cheek into it. The peace of the image is comforting, and it puts Arthur at ease, enough that he even feels his cheek twitch upward as he gives way to a smile.

Merlin looks like a child when he sleeps. He always has: countless mornings found Merlin sprawled out next to the campfire on hunting trips, and though Arthur certainly never admitted it to him, he almost felt guilty waking Merlin. It always felt too much like disturbing a child, even in the way Merlin woke: twisting himself around on the bed roll, oftentimes pushing half his body up while his face remained smushed in his bedding, as though his lower half was doing its best to rise without him.

Frankly, Arthur always did wonder if Merlin had slept that way as a child too. Someday, maybe he'll ask Lancelot this time around.

Running a hand through what feels like a spectacular mess of bed-head, Arthur heads for the bathroom, already considering getting those files out again. Merlin's past—at least his past in _this_ life—is always a sore spot, as is Lancelot. It's to be expected: the man ran off with his wife, and, again, here he is managing to push his presence in on something that should be Arthur's. Access to Merlin's childhood—Arthur ought to have been the one receiving that.

"If anyone has the right to look angry, Arthur, it's me."

Arthur snaps around so fast that he almost achieves whiplash. How had he managed to miss Merlin waking? He's been standing here the entire time. Pretty abysmal powers of observation to have overlooked such an important detail.

Despite having woken, Merlin makes no move to leave the bed. He hardly bothers to shift at all, to the point that his head remains on his pillow, tilted only slightly so that he can follow Arthur with eyes that have shed all traces of sleep: his body may still be curled up in blankets, but his mind is clearly entirely awake.

"Did Lance ever stay the night at your house when you were children?"

Apparently, his mind-to-mouth filter has shut down this morning. Merlin clearly thinks so too: he startles, blinks, and then finally raises himself up off the pillows, pushing up to prop his back against the headboard. "Are you serious?"

Serious, yes. But really damn stupid to bring up Lancelot like this—and it's clear they both know it. How in the world had he thought that was a good idea, letting that thought out of his mouth?

Taking it back isn't an option, though, and in some sense talking about these issues is a little like war: once the mistake is made, all you can really do is push on.

"Of course I am," he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest and staring back at Merlin.

All that earns him is an eye-roll and a disdainful little snort. "Don't know why I asked. With Lancelot, you're always serious." He shakes his head and sighs. "We were children, Arthur. Friends. He grew up next door to me. Stop being so bloody obsessed with him and get over it."

Obsessed? Well, probably. He _trusted _Lancelot, and surely if he'd just looked more closely he'd have seen Lancelot's betrayal coming before it happened. It was obvious in retrospect, but he'd been _sure _Lancelot and Guinevere were above reproach that he'd ignored what was so obvious. He'd ignored everything about Lancelot that he didn't want to see. Merlin's no fool: he can't possibly think Arthur will do the same thing a second time.

This time, he's going to know _everything_.

Marching forward toward the bed, he ignores the flash of unease in Merlin's face and reaches out to grab the comforter. One good, solid yank has it slithering off Merlin and to the floor. "Up," he says, perhaps a little discourteously, but he does have things to do, and he's simply not going to suffer Merlin sitting there and staring at him so reproachfully.

"Why didn't you kidnap _Lancelot _if you're so terribly worried about him!" Merlin snarls.

It's not all that surprising when Merlin takes a swing at him… _again_. Merlin—well, he's really pathetically simple sometimes. Not stupid. Just naïve. The kind of naïve that has him trying to punch someone who has already effortlessly restrained him less than twenty-four hours ago.

Catching Merlin's wild swing—_still _no technique—is disappointingly easy. This time, though, he doesn't bother to get Merlin's arm up behind him: he just spins him and gets his arms around Merlin, holding him against his chest.

The moment Merlin realizes what he's doing is easy to see: he goes still, and his breath hitches. He doesn't ease—if anything, he tenses more—but he does stop trying to get away.

Once Merlin stops struggling, he's left with his back to Arthur's front, their hearts perfectly aligned: enough that, when Merlin stills, he can no doubt feel the beating that is the same as his own. A little underhanded? Perhaps. But a reminder that the life in Arthur's chest comes from Merlin is not necessarily out of place.

"I see enough of Lancelot as it is, " Arthur says simply, gripping Merlin's wrists firmly. "If he disappeared completely, it would only make my life easier. Don't except me to care much for a man who never cared enough about me to keep his hands off my wife." It's not _all _true, of course. Lancelot—it was never that straight-forward. In all other things, Lancelot was loyal to Arthur, but this one thing—most days, Arthur can hardly stand to look at him, knowing what he knows.

"It wasn't like that, and you know—"

"Lancelot's wellbeing is not my priority, Merlin. Yours _is_." One quick shove has Merlin plunging away from him and falling face first onto the bed. He's only beginning to turn over by the time Arthur's moving away, half-disgusted with himself, but really more irritated by Merlin. Truly, Merlin ought to know better: he understands what Lancelot did, and he should know that it's best that any friendship they had stays buried in the past. He doesn't hate Lancelot—can't, really, but the day when he no longer has to see him—he can't deny that he's looking forward to it.

"You're an ass, Arthur," Merlin calls after his retreating back.

"Yes," he agrees as he reaches out to open the bathroom door. "A royal one."

Pity that in Camelot he couldn't make references to a past life: they do shut Merlin up so very effectively.

* * *

[October 21st, 2007]

Merlin makes fish fingers for dinner. There isn't much else he can do when his mum is working a double shift again, and his dad is—he'd actually rather not think about that. Just… out. That's where he is. Somewhere. Maybe that's all right. His dad always likes to watch boring stuff on the telly. This way, Merlin can watch what he wants. Only, the stuff on the telly right now is all talking about Parliament and the thing that happened. That bomb.

Looking over his shoulder, Merlin glances at the worn armchair that is his father's favorite. He won't consider how much better—more like a home—it'd seem if his father were in it, his mother in the kitchen making a _real _dinner. Still, the image is a sort of comfort against the unease in his stomach, though probably everyone is feeling that sort of thing after what happened to Parliament, and—

He turns back to the telly and switches it on.

It's not all that surprising to find it on the news. A background noise of political mumblings has kind of been the soundtrack of the house in the last few days, especially when his mom is home. _Better to be well-informed,_ she'd always told him; she probably had it on this channel when she turned it off.

It could be that she's right. But Parliament—it's not quite _real _to him. Just men in a big building, doing something important, something he's supposed to respect, because it's Britain's government, and that makes it worth knowing. Every time he looks, though, sees the pictures of the ruins, hears the newscaster drawling on about death counts like it's any other statistic, it feels… not quite real. Wrong. Doesn't everyone's stomach twist all up when they hear stuff like that? Or is it only him?

Tonight it's not any of it. Instead, it's the prince. The king was killed in the blast, though, so maybe that means the prince is the king now. Or maybe not. Maybe he's _everything_. Because that kind of sounds like what he's saying. Something about collective security, the only person left to hold control at this time—it's a bit hard to follow. They don't talk about stuff like this in school. There's always been someone to take the Prime Minister's place. If someone dies in Parliament, there is always _someone_.

Except… now.

Except the prince.

Shifting down onto his belly in a more comfortable position, Merlin stretches out on the rug and leans forward, caught on every world. He never paid all that much attention to the prince before. There really wasn't much reason to do so. Sure, it was kind of neat to see what he was doing, realize that some of the stuff he liked, Merlin liked too—footie, but, then, who doesn't like that?—but other than that, he'd just been a face, only a figure.

And now he's _not_.

_Arthur_.

He doesn't understand it at first. It's like an itch, skittering along the inside of his skin where he can't scratch: heat trails in its wake, pushing him to a boiling point, shaking him. What is—what _is _this? His fingers flex and he gasps, swallowing and swallowing and swallowing, tasting nothing but air until his throat is dry and the skin sticks together, making him cough. Great, scary, hacking coughs. Too much for just tasting air… but he can't stop. Can't catch his breath.

A little frantically, Merlin tries to look away—to wrench his gaze from the television, but it's stuck; his eyes stick open, as dry and trapped as the breath in his throat. All he can see is Arthur, over and over and over, and then—then.

More. No, it's—no, it _is_ more, only things that don't make any sense, don't—

_Arthur_.

The smell of polish on a rag, rubbing against armor; a sharp word with a teasing smile; red fabric, needing to be washed; a sword in a stone; and, finally, a sword in a body. Arthur's body. Camlann. Before that, Camelot.

"Arthur. Arthur."

He's crying. And he can't see.

"_Arthur_."

Please, no. Arthur dying. Arthur living. Arthur living to die. Help, help, _please_…

"Ar…" A gasp, the last syllable stuttered out: "—thur."

When Merlin's vision focuses back in, he doesn't know it at first. How would he? He's face first in the carpet. Nothing much to see there. Goodness, though, it smells horrid, like dust—stuff all choked up in his nose, his mouth—probably because no one has vacuumed in a while. He simply inhales heavily, letting it choke him until he starts coughing, wheezing with it, snuffling for air _again_: tears are running down his face, and maybe he can pretend he's crying because of the dust?

He's a child. A little boy. Not even a teenager yet. He still spends his time playing with his friends—oh, hell, _Lancelot_—and this can't be right. Can't be. But it's in his mind—his past is his present, and, and—

"Arthur," he mutters once more, dropping his forehead to the carpet.

He just… just nothing. He just _can't_.

Can't do anything at all but keep on breathing dust.


	9. Chapter 9

[September 2nd 2007]

Even in this lifetime, Gwen still starts out as Morgana's maid. Or… something. Frankly, Arthur isn't quite sure what she is. She gets paid to clean, he's fairly certain—at least, that's what the payroll says—but from what he can tell, she's more of a personal assistant than she is any sort of maid. And that… really doesn't make sense, because it's not like Morgana has much of a job. What could she possibly need an assistant for?

Apparently, personal assistant also qualifies as "bouncer". Although, _Gwen_ as a _bouncer_? It's a bit hilarious. Sadly, not so hilarious that she fails to be intimidating. He could take her down with hardly any thought, but right now he could swear he's the one who's about to get his ass handed to him: she's standing here, arms crossed as she regards him speculatively, like she's trying to decide whether to call security or not.

Bloody fantastic. And _why_ did he think he could handle this? That being face to face with Gwen would be all right? Didn't think that out very well, did he? This is—he ought to just kick himself right now, save Gwen the trouble, since those shoes she's wearing look like they're probably pretty expensive, and God forbid they get scuffed for something as menial as assault.

Yes… he _really _can't handle this.

Because Gwen—she looks beautiful and kind and intelligent and everything he ever loved about her. She looks like _her_. It's a bit different seeing her in jeans and a blouse, but her face is the same, though this time with a shade of make-up. She hadn't worn that much, even as queen. She hadn't really needed to, just like she hadn't ever needed the same elaborate hair arrangements that Morgana had always wanted. None of that had ever made Gwen happy. Her hair, though—he'd always loved her hair, especially when it was long. The weight of it had felt perfect in his hands, curling around his fingers when he sank them into it, the tendrils snaking around his knuckles and nails like they were holding on.

She'd cut her hair the night she left him. It was probably easier to travel that way. He'll never know for sure—he never got to ask.

And, yet, here he is, poised to do everything all over again.

Because he _is_ about to do that. He can feel it. He can feel _her_. Some things just don't die, even if he _knows _it'll kill him_._

"You can't kick me out," he says as evenly as he can manage, given everything. It's _Gwen_, and he's talking to her like he doesn't know her, and she'll betray him if he lets her, but it. Is. Gwen. And that means everything to him. "My father owns this building."

Gwen's nose wrinkles. All right, that might have been the wrong thing to say. Even he'll admit that he might have sounded a shade entitled. "It's still polite to call ahead." Which, in that tone of voice, sounds a little like, _You remind me of something I found on the bottom of my shoe yesterday._

Back to the stupid shoes again.

"Look, I know, I'm sorry… Gwen, isn't it?" In the last few days, since he's remembered, he's found that people he knew before don't simply accept that he knows a creepy amount about them, and he really doesn't fancy being arrested or possibly committed for what probably look like stalkerish tendencies.

There's a pause, but Gwen does finally nod, her hand creeping up a bit higher on the doorframe as she leans into it, still watching him as though she can't quite decide what mental affliction he has, if he even does have one, or if he's just a prat.

Merlin would, of course, say prat.

"Are you here to talk to Morgana?"

"Yeah. I, uh, think I owe her an apology for running out on her the other morning…." Actually, he really owes her more of an apology for sleeping with her in the first place, but he can't very well tell Gwen that, and, anyway, he needs to tell Morgana _why _first. Or, rather, he needs to show Morgana the note her mother wrote to Uther—the one Arthur has just recently filched from his father's office. And, yeah, it's probably a bit cowardly that he resorted to that rather than just asking his father about his relation to Morgana, but… it's been a long few days. There are worse things in the world than a tactical bit of avoidance.

"I'm, uh, not sure she'll actually _want _to see you."

Yes, because he really fancies seeing _her_. Just can't wait to walk in, maybe have some tea, and, oh, yes, _Hello, _Sister, _sorry we slept together._ "I'm not looking for a repeat, I can assure you," he blurts out before he thinks better of it.

He'd be the first to admit that Gwen is entirely entitled to look like her brows are trying to crawl up into her hairline.

"I—look—" Frustration mounting, he grinds his palm into his forehead, trying his best to stave off the headache that he can feel beginning behind his right eye. "That—I—that came out wrong—"

Gwen thins her lips and nods curtly. "You think?"

"I just—I want to _apologize_, and—" Swallowing down whatever he was going to say—he doesn't actually know what he was going to say, come to think of it—he forcibly pulls back in his thoughts. Regrouping, if you will. Sometimes that's just necessary. "Look," he tells Gwen as evenly as he can manage, "I have a very good reason for why we shouldn't have done what we did. And I… need to tell her what that is."

Gwen still doesn't look convinced. "I'm fairly certain she's got enough reasons all on her own without you giving her more."

He always did love that Gwen was so stalwart. In this case, though, it may not be the best thing. Morgana was so stupid to throw this kind of devotion away the first time around. "She'll want to know this one, I'm sure."

It might be something on his face that does it. He can't feel anything out of place, but he can't imagine he doesn't at least look a _little _(a lot) desperate, and maybe that's what moves her. Whatever it is, Gwen finally sighs, dipping her head and casting her gaze off over his shoulder for a few moments before she relents. "All right. I'll call her down."

* * *

[August 6, 2012]

The last time he was in a hospital like this, he actually never was. In a hospital, that is. He should have been, though. Some nights Merlin wakes from dreams so vivid that he'd almost be willing to swear that it _did _happen. Surely he couldn't be imagining the horrid sterility and the claustrophobic sense of institution? It's only when the walls start closing in that he remembers it isn't real.

Walls don't swallow people up. Not physically, anyway.

If he had been here before, though, this is how it would have gone: just like he is today, he'd have been sitting in an uncomfortable chair upholstered with some dully colored substance that is really more plastic than fabric. He'd have been tracing the line where the rug of the waiting area meets title, his eyes constantly flickering down the seam, looking for any sign of a tear or of shoddy workmanship. He'd have been listening for the click of heals and grinding his teeth in frustration when a nurse walked by in flats. The lack of noise those flats made would have been—just like it is now—an unacceptable deviation from whatever game he's playing with himself.

As if he needed more proof that not all games are fun.

Really, the only difference he can find between the almost past and the present is which parent he's waiting for: the first time this happened, it should have been for his father. It _was _for his father.

But not today.

_We're going to need you to come in. She's listed in critical condition… operate immediately… next of kin…._

Only kin.

He'd given them her name. Hunith Emrys. All common sense screamed not to—don't throw away years of hiding for this—but if she does die, he can't see her buried under a false name. Not a name that never meant anything at all. She's his _mother_, and she'd want to rest next to his father. How can he possibly deny her that?

How, indeed? The question is unsettling, and he fidgets nervously.

The coffee in his hand has long since gone lukewarm. The blasted stuff doesn't even have the courtesy to go all the way cold. He ought to just throw it out, but picking at the Styrofoam cup gives him something to do with his hands, and it's far better than sitting still.

Feels like he's been moving for an age. Sitting still might not even be possible anymore.

Of course, impossibility is a rather common theme these days. Can't use his real name. Can't stay in one place too long. Will never see his father again, and will never know precisely who killed him _(not Arthur, please not Arthur)_.

At least his mother never had to see anyone's face. How had it looked for his father, in those last few moments when that squad of men had been baring down on him? It certainly wouldn't have made for a very good film scene—the middle of Tesco's in mid-day is no dark ally. By all accounts, there was nothing particularly spectacular about it. His father had been drunk, and he hadn't noticed as the store slowly cleared out, the other shoppers being herded to safety. Perhaps he hadn't even noticed the five men approaching him. No one Merlin's talked to can ever decide whether they were wearing military dress or not—though, even if they weren't, they were certainly wearing something close enough to insure they were outfitted for their roles.

His mother, thank God, will never have to encounter someone reaching for her while she's caught in a drunken haze. She'll never grab the knife hidden in her jacket, not thinking—not even _considering_—that there might be other options. That is, better options for someone too drunk to handle a weapon, someone who raises the knife back and tries to stab, only to have his wrist misdirected, and, in a drunken fumble, stumble, lurching forward into his attacker and driving the knife into his own gut.

Or so all accounts go.

It's plausible. How dearly he'd like to believe that Arthur only gave orders to contain rather than kill. Only… Arthur had seen the kind of parent Merlin's father was. He probably has files on it. Might even have video footage, probably of Balinor stumbling home drunk, or maybe of Merlin waiting after school for a father who never arrived to pick him up.

Scuffing his toe against the carpet, Merlin picks another bit of Styrofoam off the cup and flicks it to the floor. He could have done that at home when he was growing up. His father either wouldn't have been there or would have been too drunk to notice. And Arthur—he knows that now. Knows that Merlin had that kind of upbringing.

Once upon a time, Arthur would have understood—would have realized that Balinor was too tormented by his own demons to even conceive of properly caring for anyone else. He may not have liked Balinor's actions, but he would have seen the cause and had mercy. But the Arthur of today? It's impossible to say.

Not Merlin's mother, though. Arthur would never hurt Hunith.

Right?

Finally, Merlin pushes himself to his feet and drags his limbs over to the nearest bin, tossing the cup—still half full—into it and wincing as the liquid spills. The person who has to empty that certainly won't thank him. It's inconsiderate of him, but, really, he just hadn't thought about it. Seems to be a talent of his. Easier not to think—to not consider how his mother has been his lifeline, the one bright spot in his world growing up. How she worked to take care of him.

And how a head-on collision on the M25 was her reward.

Now, she can't even get nurses who are willing to come tell her son whether she's still breathing. He's been waiting hours, and it's possible that no news is good news… but the achy feeling in the depths of his stomach says otherwise. If he spends much more time standing here over the bin, he'll likely even get to see those depths up close and personal.

Wiping his arm across his mouth, Merlin spits into the bin and turns away. He could go back to the waiting area. Sit down again, flip through another dog-eared magazine without seeing any of it. Listen to the people around him talking with their loved ones while waiting for news. Some of them are as frantic as he is.

Going back is out of the question.

He can't do it. Only three steps out of the waiting area, and he can't make himself go back. Pitiful—he laughs shakily, swallowing down the feeling of nausea.

"Hunith Emrys."

Shock makes him fast: he's turning on his heal, back to the bin in half a second. A moment more, and he's shrinking away, fading into the waiting area to which, just a minute ago, he hadn't felt he could return. He doesn't have much choice now, though, does he?

That voice—it's not the voice of a nurse. He can't ever get that bloody lucky. No. Never. He'd love to hit something right about now, tear it down and just watch it buckle. Anything. His own life would be good for starters. Blasted thing would come back though, again and again and again and—

He bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood.

Arthur. Arthur is here, in the hospital. Yes, sure, Merlin had given his mother's real name, but how can Arthur possibly be _this _quick? Of course Arthur has been actively searching—there was never any doubt about that—but for someone to find Merlin only hours after he gives his mother's name—not even his _own_ name—is practically unthinkable.

Pity fate has never regarded logical or thinkable as terms that are applicable to Merlin.

Thinking in general even seems a bit beyond him at the moment. It shouldn't be, but the sound of Arthur's voice—it does things to him. Things like making him just crazy enough to want to step forward out of the cover of the waiting area—let himself be found. Arthur wouldn't hurt him. This isn't about self-preservation. Sure, the world might go to hell, but at least he'd be back with Arthur.

At this point, there's no reason to even bother denying that, in running from Arthur, he's all but running away from part of _himself_.

"I need to know her condition."

Taking a deep breath, Merlin forces himself to turn and stroll casually back across the waiting area. No one is watching him—they're all too wrapped up in their own grief and worry to spare a glance for a stranger. This place would be a criminal's dream: no one's watching.

There's little doubt that he could walk out unnoticed. Arthur probably isn't expecting him to be sitting out in the open—and, in retrospect that _is_ a foolish decision. If he just kept walking, counting his steps by every painful jar of the unforgiving concrete under his feet, he could slip away unnoticed.

He manages it to some degree. Arthur is too busy interrogating the nurse, and many people have dark hair and slim builds. And destiny—it's not _always _out to tear Merlin down: it doesn't seem to be sending Arthur any sort of mental message that screams _look_.

At least, it holds off on that until Merlin reaches the end of the hall and—stupid, stupid decision—turns around. Never look back—what story _doesn't _say to avoid that should the opportunity arise?

It's a terribly stupid decision. Really unbelievably bad.

In all likelihood, he is probably the one who sends Arthur some sort of mental poke. After all, he's just about dying to give in and give up. Wave the white flag. Whatever. In a case like this, his subconscious isn't all that hard to figure out.

But wanting Arthur to catch him and actually _letting_ him are two very different things.

Thank God.

As he turns, he reaches out, hand coming to rest on the door handle. The metal is cool and smooth, and it's frighteningly easy to imagine that he could just pull down on that handle and walk out with no consequence. What a lovely world that would be: the kind where he could keep his hand there even as he watches Arthur's gaze slip past the nurse, flinging itself down the hall as if drawn by some sort of irresistible magnetic pull.

They lock eyes. And no one says a word.

Arthur. God help him—_Arthur_. Merlin hasn't seen him properly since—since… Camlann. Since he, no, not—not—since he _lived_. Always _lived_, yes. But this is the first time seeing him when he has all his memories. What good is it to meet Arthur in a park when he had no concept of who he was meeting? That hadn't mattered. But this does. It matters so much. Too much.

Run.

Every corner of his mind screams for him to do flee. It's taking over his brain, jolting down his limbs with shakes and jerks until he can't quite hold his hands still. Arthur's doing little better: there's a madness to his eyes—a frightening glaze. A desperation. The blue is swallowed up by the black, and it's not difficult to tell that Arthur's mind is screaming something else entirely.

Everything shatters hard (and still not hard enough).

If Merlin could understand how the air is suddenly tangible with the broken bits of thoughts and memories, there's the possibly that he could stop it. He can't, though—never could. Shards of memory slam into the walls and floor. He can't stop it, and even if the hospital walls were caving down around him, who's to say that he'd even want to put an end to it? But, for now, nothing is physical, though the air is so thick with it all that it might as well be. It's impaling him. Everything is, all at once, but it is, at least, as good as a physical push.

Graceful he certainly is not. His exit is anything but. In actuality, he falls through the door, Arthur's voice—"Merlin!"—ringing in his ears.

The sound of footfalls on concrete.

His own harsh breath.

He shoves a gurney in front of the door and runs, ignoring the scream of metal as it hits the wall. This time, he doesn't look back.


	10. Chapter 10

[December 13th, 2013]

"Planning more raids?"

Arthur could pretend the bitterness in Merlin's voice doesn't eat at him, but what good would that do? He's not in the habit of lying to himself… or to Merlin, unless he has to, because that's also a bit like lying to himself. The idea tickles at his insides, and while he doesn't laugh, it's a near thing, and maybe he's not quite as in control of his emotions as he'd like to be: he tosses the paper in his hand down onto the desk with more force than is necessary, and, not surprisingly, it catches on the air and flutters to the side of his desk, quivering for a moment before stuttering into stillness. Obviously, the paper is flimsy: good paper—really well made paper—wouldn't shiver like that. That shouldn't annoy him, but, for whatever reason, it _does_.

Not that he'll show it: he gathers the paper back into his hand on a matter of principle alone.

"Hardly," he drawls, leveling his gaze up from his desk to meet Merlin's eyes as he tidies the papers and lays them back on the desk more properly this time. "Trying to ensure that food distribution runs smoothly. There was some trouble last week. Supplies didn't get where they needed to be. I'm personally ensuring that won't happen this time."

You'd think that was a crime, what with the way Merlin tosses his head sourly and turns away, back toward the window. It's even raining out. Blasted weather sides with Merlin now: the backdrop of rainy England gives him a nice scene for his misery—and Merlin has certainly cranked that up. From the moment they'd entered this office, he's rebuffed all attempts at amicable conversation and instead made himself nice and comfortable—or not, because he refuses to sit—staring out the window at the soaked city streets below.

God only knows why he has Merlin here with him in the first place.

Good sense would dictate that Arthur not let Merlin into his office. And, yet, here they are in the large room in Arthur's apartment that's designated for whatever professional tasks that don't require him to be elsewhere. It's not exactly working from home—not in the traditional, feet up on the couch while he goes over things with the drone of the telly in the background—when there's a fully equipped office _in _his home, but it does at least make him feel less like a work-a-holic than when he stays overnight at the offices he took over at Downing Street after the Prime Minister was killed.

That sense of relative leisure is probably only superficial, though: he can run things as well from here as he can from anywhere. Thus, given the current circumstances, he can see no reason to leave: bringing Merlin here with him is more feasible than bringing him anywhere else.

Unfortunately, Merlin hardly seems to appreciate it. He's grown increasingly more reticent the longer they've been in this office. For the first hour or so, he'd at least managed to badger Arthur, insult him, even threaten him at some points. After time stretched on, though, and all Merlin had received for his effort was either silence or a even-tempered—not how Arthur _feels_, but he's not going to worsen the situation by proving Merlin right—reply, he'd given up and presumably decided that silence would be just as cutting.

The thing is, he's _right_. He's _undeniably_ right, and how much more infuriating can Merlin possibly get? There's a reproach in his ramrod straight spine, an insult in the stiff set of his shoulders, and no doubt a bitter question in his silence. For the last half hour, he simply stood at the window, watching who-knows-what, while Arthur did his best to double check his figures.

Back in Camelot, Merlin would have done that for him. He always checked Arthur's figures.

Offering that again is foolish, but that niggling memory—it pushes Arthur into it, not so much for Merlin as for himself. Is it so wrong to want what he had? "If you wanted, you could help me with that. Surely making certain that people are fed isn't a violation of whatever moral code you're following?"

Merlin scowls, though it's a bit hard to make out when only his profile is in view. "No. But helping _you _is."

Nice. If Arthur didn't know better, an attitude like that might lead him to believe that Merlin isn't routinely woken by nightmares of Arthur's death. He can't quite hold back an eye roll at the thought: Merlin is rather more convincing in his malice at midday when he's not desperately listening for Arthur's heartbeat, just for the reassurance that it brings.

Fine then. Just fine. It's not like he hasn't been privy to Merlin's moods before. "I'll be sure to let anyone who doesn't receive their share of rations know that."

There's satisfaction to be had in how Merlin's face contorts, pinching, but it's not nearly enough. This isn't working. Arthur _knows _it isn't working.

Grimacing, he tosses his pen to the side, paying little heed when it clatters noisily over the desktop before rolling to a stop. He doesn't bother to chase after it and put it to rights, but instead opts to push his papers away and lean back in his chair, lifting one leg and propping his ankle on his opposite knee. Then, folding his fingers together and tucking his hands over his stomach, he simply watches and waits.

He doesn't have to wait long.

Merlin's eyes had followed the course of the pen when Arthur had tossed it, and his gaze still hasn't left the pen's resting place, focusing on it, locking his gaze about a foot to Arthur's right. The way he's burning a hole with his stare, though—that's no pen he's seeing.

"You killed my father," Merlin says finally, eyes slipping closed.

Well, that's an interesting change of topic… and not one that's particularly favorable. "I didn't. Though, I can't say I liked Balinor much this time around."

Seems it takes an insult to someone else to get Merlin moving: annoying as that is, Arthur shifts in his chair, tensing—not quite calculating, but, yes, something close—as Merlin jerks away from the window and back toward Arthur. The movement is whipcord sharp, and his jaw tightens, angling all the lines of his face. It's nothing compared to the raw accusation in his gaze, though—the way he watches Arthur, waiting, like he thinks there's more to come. Arthur is already being judged for something he hasn't even done yet—he's tempted to just toss his head against the backrest of his chair and sit there, staring at the ceiling, maybe even shaking his head for good measure. That sense of _this is not working_? It's getting stronger. Actually, it feels decidedly like the beginnings of an ulcer by this point.

Still, he'll be damned if he gives up that easily. And, anyway, there are other things he can do—always are, if Merlin wants to play the situation like this.

"Why? Because he didn't fall in with what you wanted?" Merlin snarls.

That's a stupid question. Merlin certainly didn't fall in with what he wanted either, but it's not like Arthur hates_ him_. "No. Because he did a piss poor job of taking care of you."

Merlin stares. Just blankly stares. Someone ought to shake him, but Arthur doesn't get up to do it—doesn't do anything beyond leaning forward again, settling for shaking his own head and wondering how the hell Merlin hasn't accepted that his father was incompetent and didn't do right by him.

Probably about the same way that he didn't see his own father's faults, Arthur has to admit, though it tightens something in his gut to even consider. At least Balinor didn't commit genocide.

For all his faults, though, Uther never neglected his son, and the notion that Merlin wasn't so lucky is enough to leave Arthur scrubbing a hand over his face in frustration. He saw the state of Merlin's house. _He _was the one who found ways to get Hunith a raise, who found Merlin government aid, who made anonymous donations that always managed to find their way to the Emrys' household. While Balinor was out nursing a pint, Arthur had been the one watching Merlin, ensuring he got the best teachers—slipping those teachers extra pay to take jobs at a school like Merlin's—finding ways to sack the fathers of those boys who had beaten Merlin up, making certain that said fathers would have to seek work elsewhere, in a place where their sons would no longer harm Merlin. And God only knows what went on after Merlin regained his memories—after he somehow convinced his parents, probably with the aid of magic, to run and start a life elsewhere, somewhere where Arthur couldn't find him—couldn't help.

No, it doesn't matter what reasons—good reasons—Balinor had for being like he was. Merlin deserved better.

Swallowing, Arthur takes a breath. "He probably would have done a terrible job caring for you back in Camelot too, judging by how he did this time around, but I can't prove that, I suppose."

No, he didn't need to add that. And, yes, Merlin probably has every right to look like he's imagining how Arthur will look with a nosebleed—not that Merlin tries to physically hit: oh, no, he does one better.

"What would you know about parenthood?" he snarls.

Arthur flattens his palms out on the desk. The wood is probably cold, but he can't feel it over the pounding heat of his heartbeat.

An accusation like that—it's cruel, and Merlin has to know it, even if he doesn't know on how many levels. Of course he means it as a shot at Arthur's failure to father an heir for Camelot, and that's stinging enough, but if he knew more, if he knew just who Mordred is this time around…

Only, maybe he does.

"What?" Merlin sneers, likely in response to whatever gobsmacked look Arthur is sporting. Arthur tries to wipe it clean, but the muscles of his face feel iced over, sluggish, like syrup too long in the cold. This kind of thing can't be hidden, it seems, at least not from the people who matter most. "What?" Merlin says again, face twisting harder, more anger than spite now, and he marches his way over to Arthur's desk, curling his fingers over the front edge and leaning in hard, digging nails into the surface. "You think I didn't know about Mordred?"

Breathe. He needs to _breathe_. He's never even had asthma, and this hitch in his breath—it's just pathetic. "Who told you?" he manages to bite out. If Merlin knows, who else knows? Because Morgana wouldn't tell. Not at the risk to Mordred. Never if it would hurt Mordred, and that means there's someone else with the knowledge….

A swift breath whistles out through Merlin's teeth, and he blinks, staring down at Arthur through dark lashes that are just a little too clumped to be entirely dry. He hasn't been crying, but his eyes are red as a crack addict's, sheened over with the gloss of tears that Merlin always sported when pushed to his limit. He's not crying, but it's a near thing. "Like hell, Arthur," he chokes out. "I won't tell you."

"Not Morgana, then."

"You killed my father, Arthur. And my mother—did you kill my _mother_? Where is she?!"

Dead. And that had been an accident. Not Arthur's doing. Though, Merlin no doubt thinks it is. Just a traffic accident, though. Nothing more. Just because Merlin ran at the hospital—never saw the body—he can't quite seem to accept that she's dead. He ought to. On some level he probably even does. But Arthur—he was the one who saw Hunith after she died. Arranged her funeral. Put flowers on her grave this year, when the one-year anniversary of her death rolled around. Hydrangeas. They'd looked lovely, though they'd probably died in the frost later that night.

"You know your mother is dead, Merlin."

"I know my _father_ is dead. And I know you _say_ my mother is too. But it wouldn't be the first time you lied to me."

"You want to talk about lies?"

No. Neither of them does. But the topic is a gauntlet, simple as that. And Merlin is the one who threw it down.

So Merlin damn well better fight back.

At first (and it comes as no surprise) he doesn't quite manage: the question sends Merlin staggering to a halt, and _no_, he has no right to look betrayed. Just because Arthur hasn't brought up that period of Merlin's deception for years doesn't mean it's erased. If it had been up to Arthur it would have been—he's forgiven Merlin long ago—but Merlin—he never quite forgave himself, and that means everything in a situation like this.

If they're hitting hard, then Arthur is damn well going to make sure he wins—make sure they only have to do this _once_. If that means knocking Merlin down roughly enough that he doesn't get right back up, that's what he'll do.

Necessity really can be a bitch sometimes. It's not like they _both _don't know that.

"No answer, Merlin?" he asks, shoving his chair back from the desk and rising to his feet. His can feel the spring in his legs, which is a bit unsettling; he always felt like this before a battle, and this—it's not as though he wants it to be a battle. He doesn't _enjoy _tearing into Merlin and breaking him down… and looking at the way Merlin's face twists, half rage and half bleeding hurt, he can't deny that he'd give a good deal not to need to go this route.

But Merlin drew first.

"No answer for me?" he asks again, eating up the distance between himself and Merlin with sure, measured steps.

Merlin jerks back, but his feet remain solidly in place, fighting the urge to retreat in the face of Arthur's advance. That's hardly shocking—Merlin so seldom runs if he can stand and fight. Half a room down and distance still closing between them, but he doesn't move, just lets Arthur come at him, braces himself, cocking his head to the side and tensing so hard he's almost shivering.

Everything narrows in when they're face to face, breathing each other's air. No doubt someone somewhere would find that poetic, but Merlin doesn't look much like he appreciates it. Arthur can feel his own hands clenching at his sides, and so he can't imagine he appreciates it much either. It's a bit hard to tell at the moment, honestly. Examining emotions and all that—not right now.

It's one step short of a brutal show and tell, in the sense that, _you tell me something, and I'll show you why you're wrong until you tell me the truth and admit it to yourself as well. _Only, no one is telling anything quite yet, and nothing seems real, even the feel of a fistful of Merlin's hair—just one snippet of a flash of angry white bared teeth before Arthur yanks Merlin in close, up against his chest where Merlin can feel him breathe if he wants—because, in some way, that matters to Arthur right now, and he _knows _it matters to Merlin, regardless of what Merlin says. Regardless of what Merlin _does_: a dull pain echoes in Arthur's side when Merlin grips him back, unforgiving, right under the ribs, but that's not an attempt to escape—it's just the kind of fight they've always had. Painful and raw, but _close_, so melded together, no suggestion of running: they'll fight it out as much inside themselves as they will against each other.

"I didn't kill your mother," Arthur murmurs, low and angry, right up against Merlin's ear.

Merlin's grip tightens.

"I swear to you, I didn't kill your mother," he repeats. "And you _know_ my promises are worth something."

Worth Arthur's weight in something more valuable than gold, he'll say, because he doesn't promise. Almost never. He'll say that he'll do something, and if he says he will then he _will_, but a promise is beyond that. Merlin certainly knows that well enough. He'd know it better than anyone.

_I don't believe you _Merlin's touch screams, muffling out Arthur's counter: _You lie, you lie, you lie. _Merlin's free hand grips Arthur's other side; Merlin shoves. Hard. But he doesn't let go. More of a shake, then. That's going to be an impressive bruise tomorrow. But, then, Merlin's probably going to lose a chunk of hair if they keep this up. Tit for tat, then. They're always even.

"How did you know I was coming, Arthur?"

"How did you think I wouldn't find you?"

Another shake, punctuated by nails—cut your bloody nails, Merlin—digging up through Arthur's clothes, probably leaving neat little half-moon indents, shaded in messily with bruised purples and blacks. "It's _my_ life, Arthur! I have a right to live it. You had no right—no right—"

How absurd. Merlin's just going to stand here, too skinny, too pale, drenched with weariness so heavy that it's pathetically obvious he hasn't had a good sleep in too long to remember, and he'll say _that_? Every right—Arthur has every right in the world when this is Merlin and life, the two things that have, it seems, always been bound together. "I have every right." And then, softer, because he's not angry in this—really, he's _not_— "When have I not taken care of you, Merlin?" Somehow, sometime, his hand has slipped out of Merlin's hair, dropping to his neck. His fingers ring the skin like a collar, but Merlin's gaze has shifted hazily, fuzzing out and then sharpening back in sporadically: he's not even noticing the hand on his neck, Arthur would be willing to bet.

And Arthur isn't squeezing.

"When you died," Merlin breathes. "You didn't take care of me when you bled out on the ground and left me to make a decision. And I made it. I did. I should have let you die." And then, more venomous, not really meant, but still said to sting, Arthur is sure: "I should have left like Gwen did."

Yes, and _to hell with you too, Merlin_.

Except, it's not as though Arthur means it.

Goodness, though, that comparison—it's really just the most absurd comparison Merlin could make. If he'd stopped to think about it at all, Merlin would have known that. Probably does anyway. That lack of thinking, though—it's as cutting as the words themselves. Merlin so seldom loses his temper—but this time, he has. It slipped free far enough to lash out, searing Arthur's skin like acid.

"Gwen could leave her husband, Merlin," Arthur hisses back, flexing his fingers, just enough to remind Merlin where they are. It doesn't draw more than a casual flicker of Merlin's eyes down toward Arthur's arm. _I don't care _that gaze says. _Try it_. And Arthur never will. "But you—_you_ can't run out on your destiny."

So many people had it wrong, Arthur thinks as he stares Merlin down. Love for a spouse—for a lover—it runs deep, but sex is only something _skin deep, _organ deep at best. A matter of the heart. He loved Gwen—with a far hotter love than he had for Merlin. He would have died for her a thousand times over. But Merlin is a chunk of himself. An extension of himself. Merlin is the sort of love that isn't sex, but just damn well _is_ in the sense that it runs too deeply to ever be pulled up or rooted out. Without Merlin, Arthur is not who he is. Gwen is sex and passion, but Merlin is the other side of his coin. He craves one, but he is not complete without the other. If he has to, he can live without Gwen. Merlin—that may not be the case with Merlin.

And Merlin feels the same. Arthur knows he does. Because he can feel him feeling it.

Merlin: only a half of the whole if he tries to leave, as miserable when alone as Arthur is. Destiny gave them each other in a bond deeper than anything someone not tied by the same forces could comprehend. It's not even the kind of union that can be broken. And that—Arthur laughs a little brokenly, just barely managing to swallow a mouthful of the sound before it slips out—_that _might be driving them both a little mad.

Gently, he loosens his grip even more. They don't mean it, these things they say. Neither of them does. They don't. Really, they don't.

_I'm sorry… Or, I would be, if the fight were over. I'll be sorry then, I promise._

Why won't Merlin let it be over?

"Help me, Merlin," Arthur murmurs, low and about as close to an entreaty as he'll get. "Help me make this world what it should be."

One hitched, choked breath. "I already did."

"Then do it again."

And Merlin would like to, as much as he hates the idea: the pull is written in his face, in the strain of his jaw, in how he looks at Arthur and then, sobbing dryly, leans his head forward, down into Arthur's shoulder. The motion pushes his neck harder into Arthur's hand, but Arthur instinctively pulls back with Merlin's movement, taking care not to choke. He's only holding on, letting Merlin rest his head, listening to the whisper of soft curls next to his ear when Merlin shakes his head—no—over and over, mumbling something, a little insane.

"No."

Air—Arthur gulps for it, drawing it in until it burns his lungs. _No, _Merlin said. No. No, as in _not yet_. Nothing else will do, not for Arthur, and not for Merlin, even if he doesn't know it yet. He's practically burning a hole in Arthur's arms, and he's _shaking_, jittering in against Arthur's side like he's going to fall apart.

The idea of it—hell. Just… hell. It just… red splinters behind Arthur's eyes, cracking and shoving up into his mind until all his thoughts feel strangely shredded. Merlin—all this is killing him from the inside… though never any further. It never breaks down his body like it should. That'd be too kind: Merlin will never get that peace of a final rest any more than Arthur will, suffering be what it is. But no. Merlin won't suffer like this, like these jitters, like this ripping guilt that Arthur can feel jumping through Merlin in the skin under Arthur's fingers: Merlin just leans into him, hanging there, radiating hate, oozing need as sticky as blood. Arthur would know: he's got a mess of it on his hands, and it never washes off. It's not fair. Not any of it. And Merlin can't end it. He can't understand it well enough to end it, because he was never made for war like this.

No, instead Merlin was made for Arthur: made for a man who was made for war… and enough is enough. Merlin will not suffer when he doesn't need to. Not anymore.

Same as if he were chilled, Merlin keeps on shaking.

"Merlin—damn it, Merlin, it's going to be _fine_. Yeah?" A light shake, but Merlin hardly responds. "Hear me?" When did this shift from anger to… _this_? Somewhere between the ache in his own chest and the exhaustion in Merlin—it had changed somewhere in there. Exactly where doesn't matter so much. "It's all right."

Gentle, gentle, swaying back and forth, taking Merlin with him. He's still biting out words of anger into Arthur's shoulder, but he lets himself be held, in return half puncturing Arthur's flesh with the grip he's got. Bruises are just blood under the skin, though, right? But the blood is _staying_ under the skin. That's something, at least.

"What do you want?" Arthur hears himself asking, hands gripping Merlin's too-skinny shoulders. If Merlin would just stop shaking…. "What do you want? I'll get it for you, all right? If it will make you happy again, I'll get it for you. But you have to tell me what you want."

A gun? A second chance to shoot Arthur? Right now, if that's what Merlin wanted, Arthur can't help but think he might give it to him.

Or he might rip at him, tear him down, take the options away entirely, because it's a blessed thing to have the freedom to blame someone else. And he could give that to Merlin if he took the options away. No choices, no guilt-if Merlin could have that….

Maybe _that _is what Merlin needs.

No, not maybe. It _is_.

How did he not see it before? Now that he's thought it, the idea seems to lurk in every corner of his body. Was it there all along? If it was, he hadn't felt it, and now it's poking its head out with a vengeance, burrowing its way out of his flesh and into his bloodstream until every area of his body is infused with it. He can feel it travel—and it feels good, rather similar to alcohol hitting his stomach and spreading its warmth through his limbs.

"You can't make this decision, hmm?" Arthur mutters, soft. He's trying for gentle. It'd be nice to think he's achieving it.

Merlin chokes. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."

Arthur jostles him lightly, feels Merlin jerk against him. "I think you're a little insane, Merlin. You've been through too much."

More than a little insane, actually. And horribly conflicted. That, at least, is something Arthur is not: conflict wouldn't set him so firmly, wouldn't leaden his hand until it dipped the pen to the paper, signing every order, passing all those laws. Even now, he can sense that in his fingers—that tingling he gets right before he scrawls out his signature. He's changing lives. Keeping people safe. He's doing it the only way he can. Merlin will see. It just takes time.

For now, though, it's scary how blank Merlin's eyes look. He won't even meet Arthur's gaze. Really, it's almost a blessing when he squeezes his eyelids closed altogether, words still running off, dribbling out of his mouth, some of them in a language Arthur doesn't even understand. Merlin's still got his head tilted upward, away from Arthur, sending the vitriolic words up toward the ceiling.

Wouldn't it be nice if that were because he still just can't quite bear to say them right to Arthur?

If that's the reason, it can't be proved: a shaky breath, hitched, so badly that Arthur can feel the rattle of it in his own chest, even if it's from Merlin's lungs. And was that the tail end of a laugh? "Arthur," Merlin gasps, tossing his head back with the same limpness death drags out in people, "I think I'm—I don't think I quite—I don't trust my thoughts." And then, like he can't hold it in, he gasps, "Stop being something I have to fight." A harsh breath. "I can't keep at it."

Oh, and what that admission must have cost him. "All right. That's what you want." Carefully, he wraps his hand in the back of Merlin's shirt, just to steady him. "I understand. No more worries. I'll take care of it."

No man could fail to be just a bit insulted by the bitter laugh that spews out of Merlin's throat. Arthur has seen wyverns with more affection than Merlin shows in that laugh. There is certainly nothing gentle in how Merlin finally pulls back, pitching himself away from Arthur, stumbling, lurching—just barely catching himself on the wall.

And, yes… it's true, Merlin's not quite… right. He's sane. But this—it's an edge of sanity that shouldn't happen. The is too far out on the edge: as sane as a man can be when fighting destiny; when fighting someone he's tied to; when watching his friends rise and fall around him, never quite knowing who they are but trusting them anyway, because Merlin, as hard as it's pushing him towards breaking, could never do anything else.

Arthur should have seen this crease in Merlin's mind before. It was remiss of him. And now that crease is too close to tearing.

"You won't take care of it," Merlin accuses, chest heaving. He looks as though he's going to vomit. "You'll ruin it. All…" A gasp, "of it… all… every bit."

"Blame _me_, then. It's out of your hands. Remember that._ I_ did it. Not you. So hate me for it. But not yourself. Can you be happy like that, Merlin? If you blame me and not yourself? If I give you that?"

Shakily, Merlin's mouth quivers, but he doesn't answer. It doesn't seem as though he really can. When his eyes flutter closed, Arthur stops expecting any answer at all.

Doesn't matter. He has his answer: that _is_ what Merlin needs, isn't it? Arthur should have understood before. He'd thought… but, no, Merlin can't just join him in this. That isn't Merlin. It doesn't suit him. And Arthur—he'd been stupid not to see it. _Stupid, stupid, stupid _the beat of his blood reprimands him as he takes a step toward Merlin. He's been going about this the wrong way. He ought to know better. He certainly knows _Merlin _better—well enough that this isn't a mistake he should have made.

Lightly—just a whisper of a touch—he skims the pads of his fingers over Merlin's shirt, trying to draw him back in.

All that earns him is a sharp pivot, the slash of angry teeth in a scowl and a gritted growl. "Get away from me," Merlin snarls, batting Arthur's hand away. "Get—oh, hell—get _out_. You did this. All of it. I hate you. Get out."

Nearly two thousand or so years, and it seems Merlin's finally hit a wall he can't climb. The feeling rolls in Arthur's stomach: not a pleasant notion. This is what a breakdown looks like, isn't it? And he really can't do anything but let Merlin go about it. His eyes burn and his body aches, but he can't take this away from Merlin.

He'll fix it, though, now that he knows.

So much to fix. The stiff line of Merlin's body, taunt even as he curls his arms around himself, eyes squeezed shut into hyphens that draw together the separated parts of whatever he's thinking. They don't quite seem to make it, though, and so he cringes tighter, like if he pulls harder, he'll get there—will yank everything together and make it all right.

And then he goes to his knees… and just stops breathing. His chest heaves, but he won't open his mouth—shakes his head against the raw need of his body, even as his face reddens, crying for air.

God help him, he looks _insane_.

And that's enough.

"Only one more thing, Merlin," Arthur murmurs, soothingly, like he always was with his horses when they spooked. "I just need one more thing from you."

Really, when he darts forward and pulls Merlin to him, blocking off his mouth and his nose with a carefully placed hand, he's only helping Merlin with his earlier goal. That could be why Merlin doesn't fight it so much. No more than he was, anyway. His chest is still heaving, but it was doing that already. No biting, though—no clawing at Arthur's hand, like he can't stand to pass out from lack of breath. And when the darkness must finally be there, he doesn't fight it: he just pitches his head back against Arthur shoulder and honest-to-God _smiles _into Arthur's hand.

Then he slumps. Arthur does too. "Just one more thing," he whispers to Merlin. "And that thing won't be your fault. I promise. It'll be _mine_."


	11. Chapter 11

[October 25th, 2007]

_Arthur,_

_I remember_.

That's one hell of a greeting. Or is it a farewell? It's a little difficult to tell: Merlin's home is empty, picked clean and settling into disuse with such finality that everything echoes without the furniture and signs of life to muffle the noise.

Merlin remembered. And he saw what Arthur has done. And so he ran. It's not so difficult to deduce.

Swearing under his breath, Arthur pivots, cursing again at how the squeak of his shoes bounces of the walls, and then, just for good measure, he flat out punches the wall, because the bloody thing won't stop echoing.

Damn it. Damn everything.

He's blowing air hard when he finally settles back down. Pain zips up and down his arm, sawing like the blow was made with serrations, but he doesn't feel compelled to do much more than lean his head in against the wall, right next to the fist sized dent.

He hadn't thought Merlin would _run_.

There are a million reasons why Merlin would, of course. Gaining your memories and waking back up into life to find your best friend on the television essentially taking control of all of Britain when that is decidedly no longer social acceptable—that can't be pleasant. More importantly, Merlin isn't stupid: he has to know that Arthur would want his help. And things a child wouldn't understand—anonymous scholarships, raises for his mother, random acts of charity—Merlin, with all his memories intact, couldn't fail to recognize those things for what they were. He'd have known immediately that Arthur knew who he was, where he was.

But running? Merlin had to know no harm was meant to him.

Maybe he did know that. But, then, maybe all he saw was Arthur issuing the order to place a suppresser on anyone who tested with any magic at all. And that wouldn't look like good intentions, would it?

Breathing out hard through his teeth, Arthur pushes himself back up off the wall. He hadn't meant for it to go like this. He'd meant to explain to Merlin what he was doing the moment he knew Merlin had his memories back. Only, Merlin ran. _No chance of explanation now_, he thinks, each footstep mocking him when the noise of it ricochets back into him, smacking him in the face with just how empty the place is. Empty. No sign of Merlin.

Only, that's not quite true. The note in his hand—that's a pretty clear sign… just not the sort Arthur wanted.

Amazing, though, how the handwriting is Merlin's. Not Merlin as a child—not the sort of loopy scrawl he displayed just days ago (Arthur would know—he has copies of much of Merlin's schoolwork). No. This is Merlin writing like he did back in Camelot. It's a sharp, precise piece of penmanship, not at all like Merlin's handwriting had been when he'd first come into Arthur's service. That'd had to change, of course—it's impossible to practice a speech if one can't read what his manservant has written. And if a _5 _could possibly be a _6_, or if a _2 _could be a _7_—well, the figures won't be very accurate. So, Merlin had gotten better. By the time Camlann had rolled around, he'd had a neat hand that was often more legible than Arthur's own.

And that writing—it's what Arthur is faced with now.

The words are there to see. Arthur holds them up, tilts the paper to catch the light filtering in through the window. Merlin's writing, yes.

But the man who wrote the words isn't here.

And the note is covered in dust.

* * *

[September 2nd, 2007]

"I… didn't know."

Morgana scowls and props her head up in her hand, the fingers of the other hand taping an idle rhythm onto the tabletop. "Arthur, I suspect the things you don't know would fill a book. Try to be more specific."

The face he pulls reminds her a bit of a kicked puppy, but, at the moment, she's got bigger things on her mind. Why Gwen even let him in….

"I don't—" he mutters, hand pushing nervously across the glossy tabletop. "I—"

She has no time for this: a spoiled daddy's boy who realized that this time his tendency to think with the wrong head has gotten him into a situation that he can't just pay his way out of. "Out!" _She _isn't just going to disappear and save him the mortification of having to find a way to survive her presence at social functions from now on, but she can sure as hell make _him _vanish, at least from her home.

Another stutter, a few more incoherent syllables. He certainly does do an interesting impression of a fish. Dog, fish—is he planning on going through the whole animal kingdom? Perhaps he is devolving. A bit of a pity, that—in his current state he's at least very pretty to look at.

"No, just—wait!" he finally manages to say as she stands from the table, pushing her chair in meticulously and fixing him with an impatient look. "I—here."

In the first stroke of confidence she's seen since he entered her apartment, Arthur reaches into his coat jacket and pulls a letter out. He waves it lightly at her, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as though the thing is poisonous and barely fit to be touched. Figures he's trying to hand it to her.

She drums her fingers along the back of the chair. "What is it?"

"Read it."

"You aren't capable of explaining?"

"Not in the same way this letter can."

Of course not. That would be _easier_.

Irritated, she reaches out and snatches the letter from his hands. He lets it go, but his lips pinch into a bow and then flatten out, suggesting he's biting nervously at them from the inside of his mouth.

Carefully, she unfolds the note.

The first thing that stands out is that this is her mother's handwriting. That much is obvious, even just from looking at the name at the top, etched out across the paper in her mother's fluid script. It's tempting to linger over that, to focus entirely on the way the letters run together—almost like water, she'd thought when she was younger. Once, she'd asked her mother how she'd learned to write like a stream. It's a good memory. A simple one.

The name is a darker one. _Uther_. Her mother was writing to Uther. Her father been an MP—it wouldn't have been strange if Gorlois had written the letter. But the letter is unmistakably in her mother's hand. The implications—they aren't entirely unconsidered—but even that name, cradled as it is by her mother's writing, is no better than a portent.

The letter does not disappoint. It is sharp, to the point—cutting, just as it had to be. Maybe she should have expected this. Maybe she _did_. There's no point thinking on it. There's no point in thinking on _any _of it—not what she already really knew, not what she suspected, and not what was too deeply buried.

Her hand doesn't shake. Her lips don't form the words.

Regardless, they _are _seared into her mind.

_She is your daughter. Take care of her._

The letter is dated two weeks before her mother's death.

"Has this been tested?" she asks calmly. She can't quite deny the inclination to toss the letter away from her, but she does manage to hold herself to just a flick of her wrist that sends the offending paper fluttering onto the table.

Arthur blinks and exhales slowly. "The letter?"

"The claim _in _the letter."

"You even have to ask?"

She snorts softly. "Hardly. That physical my mother insisted I have a few weeks before she died—the one with blood work—was obviously not just a way to settle her mind about my good health."

"Apparently not," he agrees, and if she's not mistaken, there's a trace of shame in his voice. A shade of apology, even.

"Does he know?"

"Know?" Arthur echoes. "What happened after the fundraiser?"

She nods.

"No. And, if we're in agreement, he never needs to."

Oh, in this matter they couldn't possibly be _more _in agreement. Sleeping with baby brother is—is—it is _something_. So many things, honestly, and, if she could, she'd dig a hole and bury it all away. Send it to space like she'd heard someone suggest people ought to do with garbage. Get it away from here.

"For what it's worth, I _am _sorry," Arthur says finally, glancing up at her. His eyes seem almost too blue, lit with the light that streams in from the window. How handsome he seems like this, clear and honest and _sorry_.

God help her, she'd like to cry.

He is beautiful, and she is beautiful, and they are _siblings_, and, oh, what have they done? Really, _what have they done?_

Standing up from the table, he wipes a hand across his mouth and then pauses, hand still halfway covering his lips. He has no idea of the correct course of action either, it seems. Reach out? Run away?

And so she takes the only option that seems truly thinkable: "I think it would be best if you left."

He does. He leaves without another word. She is left standing, hands gripping the back of her chair in a quest for support that simply no longer seems to exist.

When the door closes behind him, she could swear the breeze knocks her over.

Though, more than likely that's just the force of her sobs.

* * *

[Noverber 15th, 2013]

When Morgana set up this safe house, her priority was obviously not procuring comfortable beds. Cleaning doesn't seem to be her focus, either, but that's more believable: the Morgana that Merlin knew never had to lift a finger to clean until the time she was ousted from Camelot, and, after that, her places of residence were seldom very neat unless she had someone—some peon, and she was _good _at finding those—to do it for her.

It's a bit surprising, however, to find that she's willing to sleep on something as lumpy as this. Goodness, thinking that—it's a bit absurd, isn't it? He's been spoiled by years of sleeping on any mattress at all. When he first came from Ealdor, this lumpy mess of padding with the outline of springs poking up through it would have been sheer luxury.

Groaning, Merlin flops over onto his stomach and stuffs his face into his pillow… which, coincidentally, also smells like mothballs. Really, though, now he's just being foolish. He's been sleeping in doorways and parks for months now. A poorly made mattress isn't truly bothering him—but he _can _feel the tight ball of irritation twisting up his nerves: protesting, even to himself, that nothing is wrong would just be a waste of time. Even contemplating it makes his head ache, which he really doesn't need right now.

Squeezing his eyes tightly closed, he takes a deep breath and takes that mothball scent in. He can just suck it up, accept what's really bothering him, and stop whining about things that aren't the problem. He's better than this. He has to be.

God help him, though, his nerves feel frayed thin, worse than if they'd been spliced straight down the middle.

_Will it always be this bad?_

He can't believe that his brain will always feel like it's eating itself from the inside out. Best as he can tell, it's not even anything to do with the spell that bound him to Arthur. This is just… him. Guilt. Anxiety. But mostly guilt. Some days, though, it doesn't even feel like him anymore, but just someone too saturated with those feelings to ever find himself right again.

"If you want dinner, Mum is ordering pizza."

The voice from the door is startling, and when he actually looks up and finds a small dark haired child with disturbingly familiar blue eyes staring back at him, startling tips right over into disturbing. Mordred's is a face that's not easily forgotten. Even if the face could be, those eyes—no one would ever forget those eyes. Personally, Merlin's always wondered if they're just an extension of Mordred's ability to speak into his mind: that stare certainly makes it look like he can see straight into Merlin's thoughts. It darn well _piercing_.

Rolling onto his side and then levering himself up enough to swing his legs over the side of the bed and throw himself into something that at least resembles a sitting position, Merlin finds himself asking, "Your mother is going to order pizza?"

Mordred looks at him like he's exceptionally stupid. The kid is probably no more than five, and he's judging Merlin. Fabulous. Just fantastic. "Yeeeah," he says, crossing his small arms. "Don't you do that sometimes?"

"I didn't figure Morgana for the type to order pizza when she's doing her best to keep herself hidden." Should he even be saying that? Does this kid know that his mother makes a career of keeping herself under the radar and opposing her brother? She's trying to assassinate this kid's uncle, and what if Mordred didn't know that? Forget being found by Arthur—Merlin would probably have to give himself up just to get protection from Morgana if he manages to scar her son.

Mordred just shrugs. "S'not like she goes to get it herself."

Yeah… he really doesn't want to know what poor sod she sends. She probably _could_ go herself if she wanted, though. It's not like Arthur is going to be scanning pizza shops trying to find her. Though, taking chances—it's never good. Merlin never did favor overly public places in the year he's been on his own. Too many cameras. CCTV can be a real bitch. Back alleys and under bridges, small doorways away from anything important—those worked better. Walking through a crowded place was all well and good, but staying there too long was just asking for Arthur to get a lock on his face off some of the surveillance footage.

Right. So, ordering pizza seems a bit of a risk.

But, then, that's Morgana.

"Says when she was gonna have me, she wanted pizza all the time."

Yes, Morgana would tell her five-year-old son that. Not that it's bad, but just… how many five-year-olds would know something like that?

Finding any response to that is a bit of an effort, and in between that and actually answering—yes, he _is _stalling against answering a child's question, and, _no_, that isn't pathetic, really—he shifts so that he's sitting up a little straighter. Mordred watches him carefully, seemingly studying how Merlin's elbows come to rest on his knees, his lower arms hanging loosely between his legs.

Thankfully, Mordred doesn't really seem to want a response. "My father would get it for her, she told me. Guess he got real sick of it, though. Used to tell her that when he was king, he was gunna get rid of the stuff."

_What?_

Merlin could swear his throat just closed. Mordred… can't be saying what it sounds like. Morgana, Mordred… Arthur. That's—right, _no_, just breathe, don't be stupid, don't think stuff like that.

It takes him a moment to get his composure back—and if anyone ever asks, he certainly will not be admitting that he lost it because of a five-year-old—but when he does, he looks back over at Mordred and nods. "Who's your father?"

Mordred's lips dip into a frown. "Dunno. Mum doesn't say."

Conclusions are so terribly easy to form. And in this case, what if he's right? Damn it, though, that headache he was feeling coming on—it's starting to take up tap-dancing. Or maybe football. Or possibly tap-dancing football with a side of rugby. "She's just joking about him being king, right?"

That frown gets deeper, marring his brow and even causing his eyes to narrow. "Bet we'd live someplace better if my father were a king."

Meaning he doesn't know. Meaning Morgana might actually have slept with Arthur. Or… no. That can't be possible. Grimacing, he rakes a hand through his hair. He's going crazy. The headaches and the stress, everything—he's seeing stuff that isn't there. This is England. Of course there are jokes about being the reigning monarch. Just because Morgana's boyfriend or whatever he was used to joke about banning pizza does not make him Arthur.

Bloody hell, that ought to be a t-shirt. It's that absurd, he thinks dismally, pushing his hand up into his hair again and this time just letting it linger. He'll probably only be doing it again in a second anyway: might as well economize his energy.

"Yeah… right. Uh, tell your mother I'll have some if she's offering."

"'K" he says, shooting Merlin one last speculative glance—the kid probably thinks he's crackers—before turning and tottering out of the room. He may not sound quite like a kid, but at least he still looks and walks like one. Small comforts—Merlin will take what he can get. Frankly, though, he'd love a Mordred who didn't talk at all. This new version—one that actually uses words—is almost disconcerting in his normality. At least back in Camelot, he'd known to expect the voice in his head, mostly because Mordred's irregularities eventually became regular in a very dark, deadly way. To hear him talk now just feels wrong. It's not surprising that he does, though—he's being raised by Morgana.

Honestly, though, that's not much better: this time around, Merlin is simply hearing the things that were always silent.

Silent. But still more or less there.

* * *

[December 14th, 2013]

The cold is the first thing Merlin notices. It's that icy ache that sinks down into his skin and wraps its brittle fingers around his bones, shaking him hard enough to set him shivering. He shivers in sharp spurts, and it's only once he opens his eyes that he realizes that the motion is grinding his side into the ground.

The ground. The cobblestone beneath him is a far cry from the soft bed he'd last woken in, and the slick of the stones is off-putting, but something about it yanks out the last bits of hope and pulls it to the surface of his mind. Where is he? Unknown. But he is not with Arthur.

The alleyway that he's found himself in isn't a particularly bad one. Already, his hearing is picking up the obvious noise of motor vehicles nearby, and once he gets his elbow under him and is able to twist enough to prop himself partially upright, a quick glance reveals that the end of the alleyway appears to open onto a busy street. At the very least, another quick look around reveals no discarded needles or broken glass; and the area in general seems relatively clean.

Carefully, Merlin gets his hands under him and gingerly propels himself to his feet, catching the nearest wall with shaky hands for balance. If he can stay upright, keep one foot in front of the other….

He stumbles to the end of the alleyway, and though he doesn't quite move out onto the street, he does take a good look outward. Perhaps he should be surprised when he finds himself facing Hyde Park, but the more he stares, drinking in the sight of grass and gas lighting that is just beginning to stand out against the twilight, he can't find it in himself to be shocked.

Neither can he quite manage to feel as trapped as he knows he undoubtedly still must be.

He blacked out against Arthur. In Arthur's flat. And he woke here. Unless his magic has found a way past the suppressor—which is always an outside possibility—he didn't simply _appear _here. More than likely, Arthur _put _him here. There is little sense to it—no plan that Merlin can see—but nothing about these last few years has been quite _sane_, and Arthur, for all his faults, _is _still a brilliant tactician in a way that Merlin never could be: how can he possibly be expected to foresee what Arthur is planning, no matter how intimately he knows Arthur's mind? He has sat in on war councils; has been party to battles themselves; and, more than once, has been Arthur's audience on late nights when the king simply couldn't sleep through the battle tactics that ran about his head. For all of that, though, there were times when he still couldn't anticipate Arthur's plans.

It is, in some ways, he thinks, grinding his finger against the brick of the building into which he leans, somewhat to his credit. Peace has always suited him better: he only ever went to war for Arthur, and when the war _is _Arthur, there is a terrible sort of disconnect, almost as if destiny is grinding back on itself as it flails against the reality that it is no longer Merlin _and _Arthur, but Merlin _against _Arthur.

With a slow, shuffling step, Merlin pushes off the wall and onto the path, ignoring the bright lights of the cars that pass by. If he can get to the park, to a bench, he could think, could sit for a while without arousing undue suspicion as he might if he were simply to collapse here, by the side of the road.

Somehow he manages, eating up the distance until it changes from harsh blacktop to soft grass and the gravel of a walking path. Never have the wooden slats of a bench felt so welcoming; in this moment, Hyde Park may as well be home. It's certainly a circumstance he hadn't anticipated—a feeling he has felt precious few times since he regained his memories.

For a few moments after he leans back into the bench, he simply breathes. If that were all he had to do, life might be easy, but the thoughts that chase him—he simply can't avoid them. Arthur placed him here. For the moment—unless something else presents itself—that's the conclusion he must make. He can still feel the suppressor in him, benign and dormant so long as Arthur doesn't activate it, but always there, resting on his magic and promising a brutally efficient check if Arthur wishes it.

The ultimate issue? He cannot rely on his magic while the chip is there. There is too much risk—too much of a chance that Arthur could short him out when he needs him abilities the most. And where will that leave him?

It's a convoluted situation at best. The chip is still in place. Arthur still has a hold on him, and, no doubt, a tracker. Merlin would like to curse the unfairness of it all, but the number of people still strolling down the paths, enjoying the dying day, prevents him. Is Arthur simply hoping he'll lead him to the resistance? It's the most obvious answer, but surely Arthur must know that he'll see through that. He would hardly waltz up to Morgana when he has a microchip implanted in him.

Unless… unless Morgana comes to find _him_.

The realization sucks the heat from the mild night, turning it infinitely cooler, right down through his skin and into his muscles. He's a liability. From Morgana's perspective, who knows what he has told Arthur. She'll need to know if she wants to take steps to ensure that the information he leaked isn't crippling, and to take those steps, she needs… him.

The urge to run is overwhelming. Conveniently, there is a late night jogger visible from across the park, but as tempting as it is to simply sprint after him (and keep on running to who knows where), it would be useless. He's got nowhere to run to—not really. Arthur is tracking him—and will be so long as the chip is active. Any contact he has with anyone will be observed. If Morgana interacts with him—at least in the way she would need to in order to determine what he's told Arthur—she _will _be traced, and she _will _lead Arthur back to whatever place she's gone to ground.

He could run. Hide from Morgana. He could simply move, get up—and he does finally push himself off the bench—and walk away. He could hide, and she'd probably never find him, not when he's so _very_ good at hiding. But what good would that do? Arthur will realize the game is up, and _he _will come find Merlin instead. Each step Merlin takes leads him a little deeper into the park, and every minute sees the sun sinking lower behind the horizon, casting shadows hauntingly over his path, but none of that is going to hide him from a tracking device.

So, run from Morgana, or run from Arthur?

Hide from neither? Both?

Or… or shut himself down.

It's always an option. He can feel his magic still humming under his skin, tickling over the nerve endings and curling around his insides like an affectionate animal that's taken up residence. It's still _there_. If he wanted, he could clamp down on the chip, stop it from transmitting.

But it wouldn't get him his magic back—because the moment he suppresses Arthur's tracker, Arthur will no doubt stifle his magic.

Grinding his teeth, Merlin stops what has quickly become a hurried walk and veers off to the side, choosing another bench at random and slumping down onto it. Sitting doesn't make thought easier, but at least he doesn't have to consider where he's going when he's sitting still. It's tiring to try to command his feet while at the same moment doing his best to force his mind into some semblance of logical decision making.

Right. Logical. Logic means using the knowledge that while Arthur's chip, when activated, can suppress his ability to use magic, it does not drain the magic from him. It locks it inside him, yes, but if what he is suppressing is within his own body, the chip will be useless. If he is willing to sit alone with himself for the rest of his life, concentrating on suppressing the part of the chip that's transmitting his location, then he could do so. But that would be all he could do. Arthur would be unable to find him, but Merlin would be unable to do anything beyond concentrating on using his magic to hide himself.

Unless… unless he only had to concentrate long enough to dig the chip out. He can locate the chip—that's within his capabilities. At least, it should be. The chip is within his body. His magic won't have to leave his own skin.

The thing is, though—thing is,_ he_ will have to _dig_ it out.

He can't go to anyone else for this. At this point, he can't endanger them—and that is exactly what he'd be doing. If what he's trying fails, Arthur would be led right to whomever helped him. No. It's got to be his own doing.

Immediately, he's back up off the bench and moving. He can't think. Doesn't think. Thinking will make this worse. Just go, go do it, find a space, somewhere private, and… now. It has to be now.

It's a maddening itch, this impending harm. His fingers clench against each other, and he keeps shifting his shoulders, uncomfortable, though there's no comfort to be found. Calling Arthur seems so much easier. Let him have what he wants, and then maybe Merlin can lie down for a while, get some sleep, stop having to _be _so much. But, Arthur, he is _wrong_. But does it matter so much? Does any of this matter?

No. Stop.

Taking a deep breath, Merlin swallows down the jitters. Of course it matters. _Of course _it does. That's just the anxiety talking. That's just the sense of wrongness that wears at him when he fights against Arthur. And why doesn't that go both ways? _Does _it go both ways? Does Arthur feel this too? Or is he exempt, because he is the king, meant to be followed, while Merlin was always meant to serve?

Destiny. It is always destiny.

_Useless _the city seems to hum around him. _Useless to fight it_.

But can he really do anything else?


	12. Chapter 12

Sorry for the delay-my hard drive met an unfortunate early death. Luckily, the tech team was able to recover my files.

* * *

[July 11, 2009]

Gwen is waiting for him in her nightdress when he comes home. The light from the hallway frames her, backlighting her and masking her expression; it silhouettes her curves and accents the rigidity in her stance.

One glance, and he just _knows_. At least he has warning this time.

"I get the feeling I should pour a drink for this," he says quietly, stopping just inside the front door.

She doesn't reply. All he's given in reply is the tight set of her brows that he can barely make out in the darkness and the way her grip on the table where they set their keys is unnaturally tight. All of that could be overcome, but it's not likely that he can avoid the tell so inherent in the slight elevation of her chin—in the near haughty way she looks down her nose at him when he turns on her light—in the way she just _stares_.

"Something to say, darling?"

Carelessly, he throws his keys into the bowl on the table, concentrating instead of watching them land inside the fine ceramic, rather than seeing his wife look at him the way she always looked at someone she was about to sentence. Once, he'd thought she'd only appeared this way when she was meting out justice.

Might be that's the truth. Who's to say he doesn't deserve this?

"How could you do that to her?"

She never sounded quite so cold when she was leaving him the first time around—not that she'll leave him tonight. No. Gwen—she _is _good, and she'll want to fix this, give him a chance. But she'll end up leaving all the same. The damn inevitability of it might be funny if it weren't just so _pathetic_.

He doesn't laugh when he leaves the hallways and flicks on the lights to the kitchen.

"I don't know, Gwen," he admits tiredly—and he's truly not proud of the sarcasm in his voice. "How could she plan to announce that, according to blood and birth order, she's first in line for any position given out due to relation to Uther?" He doesn't bother to rage at the look of shock on Gwen's face—he's done plenty of that in private already. "What, you think I didn't know that's what she was planning? You think I announced Mordred is my son because I wanted to turn his life—and Morgana's—upside down? Because I wanted to see them hurt?"

Slowly, Gwen shakes her head, slipping just inside the perimeter of the room. The hem of her nightdress flutters appealingly at her ankles, floating all white and gauzy against her coffee skin. She's beautiful. She'll always be beautiful. And he will fall for it. Every. Single. Time.

It's why it still cuts when her brow scrunches and she looks at him with such pure distaste.

"Now, if she announces who her father is biologically, she'll be admitting to incest."

She has her arms crossed defensively over her chest, delicate nails pressing half moons into the fleshy part of her arms. He can't see why. She knows he would never harm her. Not a thousand years ago. Not now. To hell with it all—he's just as pathetic now as he was back then.

And still so in love.

What was he _thinking_?

No apologies are needed for how he pulls out a bottle of whisky. He's apparently shit at thinking while completely sober—why should it matter if he's a little drunk? He married her the first time, married her _again _the _second _time, and _why_ did he think this would work?

The first gulp burns going down. It's not the fire of absolution, but it's the best he'll get.

"You've pushed her into a situation she can't possibly win."

"Yes. But I didn't want to."

Seems he's hit a sore spot: Gwen jolts forward, grabbing the bottle from his hands and slamming it down on the table. A bit of it spills over onto the varnished surface—a waste of good alcohol.

"How dare you?" she snarls, pushing forward, closing the inches between them. He can see all too well the glossiness of her eyes this close—unshed tears—and, just as much, the cold, solid brown of her irises. Like frozen ground in the winter. "You have taken England. You have dragged in every user of magic and tagged them like _animals_!" Every word is coming out with more power—more venom, but he doesn't back up, certainly doesn't yield. "You have made those like Morgana hunted. And then you proposed to hunt her—and your own _son_—just the same."

By the time she's done, she's heaving for breath, staring up at him with all her features pulled into the middle of her face, contorted fully with fury. And if she holds that glass any tighter, it's going to crack.

It's true. All of it. But not as she makes it sound. "In today's society, they have the capacity to be dangerous. It's only a failsafe."

Gwen's lips jerk to the side, grinding her jaw into her cheek. "A way to deprive them of who they are should _you _deem it necessary. You. And only you."

"I don't intend to abuse it."

"Morgana isn't _dangerous! _None of these people are dangerous!"

If only she knew. There are no two people more dangerous than Morgana and Mordred. This time around, circumstances may not deteriorate into what they were, and God knows, he'd love nothing more. But… There is always a "but." He loves his son, loves his sister—has _always _loved Morgana. This is no vendetta._ But_….

"Do you simply forget people like Nimueh? Gwen, I don't hate people with magic. Some of them I love very dearly. But look at what they have the capacity to do. An entire country's government—wiped out. How can that remain unchecked?"

"Arthur, you can't fight injustice with injustice! And what you've done to Morgana—it's deplorable."

Of course it is. Because nothing he has ever done has been good enough for Gwen. She's going to find a reason to leave him in every single life, simply because that is _fate_. Some lark about destiny or another such topic. Beautiful, beautiful Gwen, and he will lose her always.

His insides ache. Pitiful. And he'll have a drink now, please.

Sinking down into a chair bonelessly enough that it creaks does not seem to be the response Gwen wants. Even if it were, reaching out and grabbing the drink away from her effectively smashes any sort of tenuous connection they were still capable of holding throughout this conversation. Doesn't matter so much, though—smooth glass under his fingers is more satisfying than clinging to the threads of an already fraying connection.

"How dare you," she snarls, tossing her hands up, slicing at the air—but, no, it's much more effective when she shoves them into her hair, pulling at the strands and scrunching her eyes closed so tightly that he could almost swear someone has taken away her eyeballs altogether. "How dare you care so little about this? About all of us? What you have done—"

What he has done. Loved a woman who will always leave him? Built a kingdom with his own blood and toil? Kept his people safe at the expense of his own happiness? Fought against a sister he loved dearly but who would see him dead? Watched his own kingdom fall? Oh, _yes_, the things he has _done_—how _does _he dare to shame the world by getting out of bed in the morning?

Gwen flings her arms back down to her sides. "You are a _tyrant_!"

Funny how in medieval times he was simply called a king.

No longer. It's brutal, how the good things seem to pass, but destiny manages to circle back around with those things he'd like to change. The pulse of inevitability is grinding into his skull, and though he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to snuff out the ache, all he can see is Gwen's face as she left Camelot for the last time.

"And what would you have me do then, Guinevere?"

"I'd have you not betray your own sister! I'd have you find a way to work with the magic users, rather than conquering them."

Yes, well, if Merlin would just let himself be found, that's something that will receive immediate attention. God knows Merlin has always been vital to his politicking with the magical community. With Merlin's help and support, a deal might not be so out of the question. Certain standards will have to be upheld, unfortunately—there _is _a terribly great capacity for the misuse of magic in this time period—but they could, at the very least, _talk_.

"Has it occurred to you that Morgana betrayed _me_?"

Seems not: Gwen's lips twist violently, and she opens her mouth once, then again, though each time nothing comes out, and she's left contorting her mouth around words she can't seem to find.

And then she simply stops trying.

It's not as though he didn't expect it. At some point, Gwen _always_ stops trying for him. This was always inevitable—which seems to be the theme of the night, doesn't it? Obviously, he was foolish to think he could change this—could write them a new future.

He knocks back the drink in his hand; she gurgles out a sound of disgust.

There's no need for him to look up to know that she's gone. The smell of her, and the memory-sight of her white nightgown, whipping with her motion—both linger, but that's all, and he can see that—smell it—just as easily in his mind as in reality. This time, there is no sorry, no Lancelot, but there _is _something—just an empty room this time—because there is _always _something.

And who's to say Lancelot won't soon be along to collect what is obviously and always his?

Slowly, Arthur takes a deep breath. And then he hurls his drink at the wall, watching as it shatters, raining particles of glass all across the room.

His own destruction was never that beautiful.

Figures, though, doesn't it?

* * *

[November 20th, 2007]

"I'm pregnant."

If the situation were different, she might mock Arthur for how he stiffens like an unfortunate piece of road kill in the beginning stages of rigor mortis. Probably best she doesn't try, though: he eases back up too quickly for her to make any sport of it, and by the time she's pushed down the impulse, he's already shaking his head, sending light reflecting off his annoyingly perfect hair. Why in the world did she tell him to meet her in the _park _of all the places? The bastard always looks the best in the sun, and God knows she doesn't need a reminder of the kind of thoughts that got her into this mess.

"That's not funny, Morgana."

"No. It's not."

Pinpointing the moment that he realizes how serious she is doesn't prove exactly difficult: that stupid _I'd don't believe you _half-smile slips off his face, fading into blankness—expect for his eyes_. Oh, Arthur dear, are you trying to be shrewd? Don't strain yourself. It's not your talent._

When he goes a ghastly pale, she knows he's got it.

"You can't—don't—what?"

God help them all. Her child, if it takes after its father, is going to be an imbecile. Perhaps she should start going to church more: surely it isn't remiss to put in a request in hopes that her baby will never, ever be capable of sporting such a gobsmacked, hopelessly thoughtless expression. It isn't as though she physically hit him with the words—he has no good reason to look as though she's beaten the brains right out of him.

"I'm pregnant, you're the father, and I'm keeping it."

A couple of blinks later, he apparently realizes just what she's saying. Part of it, anyway. "I wasn't saying you should get rid—"

Crossing her arms, she snorts softly. "I'm not asking your opinion. Please, don't feel compelled to offer it." If only she were truly as confident as her tone sounds: she can string together a good run of strong, assertive words, and there's a good chance she can fool Arthur into believing her projection, but the shaking in her limbs gives her away, at least to herself. Keep those arms crossed, then.

Sheer shock is giving way to shaken determination: Arthur pinches his lips in—fish have pulled that off with more grace—and then relaxes them, running his tongue over the lower lip. Twice, he opens his mouth and closes it again, mostly likely searching for the words neither of them can find to say.

Hell, if she knew what to say in this situation, she never would have told him about this at all. If she had all the answers, if she could have fixed this herself—

Grinding her nails down into her arm feels good. The pain is grounding. It's about the only thing that is, merely because she _can't _fix this for herself. And Arthur can't fix it for her.

Which is something he very clearly knows.

"What do you need from me?" he says at last, following up the words with a rushed puff of air trailing along with the last syllables.

If she keeps pushing much harder, she'll draw blood on her arms. It's not such an unappealing prospect. "I need you to never, ever acknowledge that the baby is yours."

"But—"

"Nothing. But _nothing_. If my mother and Uther left us indication of our blood relation, it's impossible to tell who else might have knowledge of it. But this—_no one_, with the exception of the two of us—and Gwen suspects—knows who this baby's father is. Keeping the paternity a secret is the only way to ensure that no one can possibly know that we—we're…."

Arthur looks away. Seems he doesn't want her to finish that sentence any more than she wants to finish it.

No one likes to hear that silence is the only way to insure that their incestuous sexual escapade and subsequent pregnancy don't come to light.

White spreads up and over his lip when he bites down, though it flushes red a moment later when he loosens his jaw. "All right. I—all right."

"_Swear_."

His hands are shaking. She can't see it, but he's shoving them down deep into his pockets in the same way she's driving her fingernails into her own flesh—just to keep _steady_. "If anyone found out," he murmurs, "this child's life would be terrible. Of _course_ I'll keep silent. I swear to that."

That is, of course, the best she could hope for. "Good," she replies, nodding. Letting go of her arms is bit of a challenge: her fingers scream at the sudden release of tension. Who knew letting go would be just as painful as holding on? "I'll take care of everything else. Just—don't… let anyone know that you have any reason to care."

"Beyond that of a friend?"

"We aren't friends."

He shifts uncomfortably, though the set in his jaw indicates that this is one issue that he will not completely concede. "My father has taken you in. By all appearances, we are living as adopted siblings. Don't I have a right to act the part of concerned brother?"

"A brother isn't a friend."

"It could be."

There's power in his gaze: in how he holds her stare and waits her out. All the time he does, he hardly blinks, pinning her down with the sharp blue in his eyes. He won't let this go. That's clear. And, really, should he have to? She can't—can't—it's _possible_ that she can't deny him some connection with the child. Can't. Shouldn't. Everything feels a bit like semantics at the moment, and it is truly only the guilty churning in her stomach that provides any obvious answers.

"All right."

Arthur just nods. "We'll make do, then."

* * *

[October 17, 2013]

Every precaution had been taken. She'd been ruthless in her scrutiny—she absolutely had. And this—_this _is how it pays off?

Clutching the wound on her side, Morgana tips against a wall, gasping for breath and barely managing to stay upright. Even the air is icy; the only source of warmth is the blood leaking out between her fingers. That might be fortuitous: at least her hands will be warm should she need the dexterity… probably for something like pulling a trigger.

Because if she sees Arthur right now? She will shoot him. She will shoot him over and over and over, long after he's dead, and then she will watch the blood seep from his lifeless body. Even then, it still might not be enough. Maybe she won't even bury him. That would mean letting him out of her sight, and, if she's not looking, who's to say he won't come back?

Over her head, the lights flicker. She glances up; they won't last long. She may have a back up power source to this bunker, but Arthur has no shortage of resources, and now that he's found this place, it's a matter of time before his lackeys manage to discover a way to cut the power entirely.

But still she wavers.

Nothing in her screams for escape. Once, it might have. But then she held her child for the first time, saw him blink his eyes open, and she knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that it would never be _run _again—not where Mordred was involved.

Gritting her teeth, she shoves off the wall. The move overbalances her, and she pitches forward into the other wall, barely managing to catch herself. Unfortunately, that requires both hands, and the right—the one she'd had against her wound—resounds against the plaster of the wall with a wet slap. A bloody handprint. Damn it all to hell. She might as well leave Arthur a note telling him she came this way.

Nothing for it now. She's got to keep moving, got to keep the screaming in her head to a minimum. If she succumbs to it—to the mad panic that demands she turn and run back for her child—she'll lose everything.

_Mordred_.

Go. She has to go. And she does. Stumbling down the corridor, half throwing herself up the stairs that she eventually reaches, falling, kneeling on her hands and knees as she climbs, only sometimes managing to grip the rail and get herself upright. And always, always fighting the desire to simply pitch herself back down and let them find her, let them bring her to her son.

No. If she goes back for Mordred, she will see him, yes, but she'll lose him any chance at freedom. She'll lose that for both of them.

She'll get him back. But not like this.

Her heart doesn't understand the distinction.

Bright light breaks against her face as she reaches the top of the stairs and throws the door open with a last pitch of her weight: she gives herself over to the momentum of the door, following it until her body stretches too far and she's dumped onto the concrete step. A back alley.

"Gwen," she mutters, clutching at her side as she watches her blood pool on the ground. Gwen said she'd be here. And so she will.

It could be seconds. It could be minutes. But Gwen does come. At first, she's indistinguishable from an enemy: merely a blur of hands, hauling Morgana up off the ground. Her voice, though—Morgana could never mistake that voice, could never misunderstand the soothing lilt of it. There's no mistaking Gwen, or how she levels Morgana up, gets her arm over her shoulder and pulls her down the alley—how does she even manage it when Morgana knows she's nearly dead weight—to the car waiting at the end of it.

"I'll kill him, Gwen," Morgana slurs. It's a bit difficult—she's got a string of hair in her mouth, _definitely_ in her eyes, and her vision is fading fast, but she's got to at least hear it said. _Someone _needs to know.

Gwen props her against the side of the car and rips the door open. "I wouldn't blame you a bit if you did."

"My baby—my baby—"

Her weight is too much for Gwen to lever down, and so she more or less falls into the passenger's seat. She can feel herself slump sideways, sprawling over the gearshift and nearly into the driver's seat. Doesn't matter, though, as long as Gwen can still drive.

The door slams. Silence. One, two, three—Gwen's door clicks and then slams open, shut, leaving Gwen beside her again. She's careful about how she peels Morgana back off the gearshift and pushes her to her own side. A mother's touch, simple as that. It's a cruel twist of fate that Gwen can't have children. If anyone ought to be able to, Gwen should. She'd never let her child fall into the hands of someone like Arthur Pendragon.

Oh, hell. Maybe she would. Of course she would. She _married_ the bastard. It'd probably be _his _kid.

"We'll get Mordred back," Gwen tells her, starting the car and almost immediately throwing it into reverse. Her eyes aren't on Morgana, but they don't need to be. Morgana can hear the sincerity in her voice—seeing it in her face would only be repetitive. "We'll find a way."

Unbidden, the edges of her vision pinch in, going an alarming shade of gray. She forcibly pushes it away. "How'd he find a way in?" she manages to choke out.

Gwen backs the car out of the alley and onto the main road. Somewhere behind them, a horn blares. She probably cut someone off. Good. Welcome to London.

"I don't know," Gwen admits, jamming her foot down on the gas pedal. Not too much, though—speeding would gain them unwanted attention. The best way to hide is to blend in… and to dump the car five or so blocks from here and trade off for another ride. New clothes. Wigs. Makeup. "Someone must have told him."

"Who?" She'd screened everyone _so _carefully.

"I don't know."

Whatever. She'll shoot them too—along with Arthur—when she finds out. For now, though—for now, she'll grit this out until they switch cars. She'll make sure she's clear of her bastard of a half brother. She'll find a doctor.

And _then_ she'll find a way to smear everything red with the blood of Mordred's father.

Arthur will understand. And she'll make damn sure he'll wish he didn't.


End file.
